One Vow is Sufficient
by Nadie2
Summary: John and Rosie move into Baker's street after Mary's death. Sherlock begins to act strangely, downright considerate and caring. Before John has the time to get to the bottom of it a new case puts everything he holds dear in danger. Johnlock.
1. The Empty Cot

I thought it was a sound which woke me. It was in fact that absent of sound. I lay there, eyes still closed, trying to determine what sound was missing. My stomach fell a second before my mind realized what the missing element was. Breathing, my daughter's breathing. I sit bolt upright in bed, and focus my eyes on the cot. The empty cot. Better empty than full of a silent baby.

Empty I can fix.

"Sherlock! Someone kidnapped Rosie!" I shout leaping out of my bed, and running down the stairs into the sitting room of our flat.

Just then the sound of my daughter's laughter reaches my ears, and returns my heart to it's proper place instead of in my shoes. Well, perhaps a bit higher than it's proper place. There is nothing quite so good in all the world as the sound of a baby laughing, and that sound had been rare ever since her mother died. Not that I think she really understood the loss, but she did understand that everyone around her was sad, always sad.

Sherlock could always wring a laugh out of her though, not that I approved of his methods. He tossed her in the air, her head only a few millimeters always from the ceiling, and then waited until she was below his waist before he caught her again.

"And apparently the kidnapper looks just like you," I reply.

"That has been known to happen," he says throwing her once again.

I catch her before he can, "Not exactly safe, this game."

"Mmmm," he agrees, "And that's why she loves it. She is your daughter after all."

It's then the kitchen catches my eyes. On a normal day is something of a chaotic chemistry lab with a sink full of used tea cups. Today though.

"Is that banana on the ceiling?" I ask.

"Mostly. Rosie wanted breakfast, and you were still asleep."

"How did that result in an explosion?"

"Your daughter's grasp on basic chemistry is no better than her grasp of basic physics," he says proving his point by handing her a toy which she immediately throws to the ground.

"Well, she is eleven months old," I say dangling her down upside down so that she can pick it up herself. I'm delighted by her giggles, and I look up just in time to see that Sherlock is too. He's looking at Rosie, upside down and full of glee. That look that he is wearing, when I first met Sherlock years ago, I thought he would never be capable of wearing a face so full of love for anyone. I didn't think he was even capable of that level of connection for anyone, let alone someone who wasn't even verbal yet.

I get so distracted by the look on his face, I almost drop my daughter. I scoop her up, and hold her close to me, giving her a little kiss on the forehead.

"So, she's eaten?" I ask Sherlock.

"Mostly she painted with food. I think she might have some talent. I think there is a duck in the middle there."

"I see, what say we get some breakfast, Rosie?" I ask her.

She reaches out her hands to Sherlock. Who has clearly become her favorite breakfast maker.

Since moving back into Baker street Holmes has systematically taken over part after part of her routine.

It was playing her to sleep, first. He wrote her a song before she was born, and she liked that well enough, but ever since we moved in he's started doing variations on a theme. I don't know enough about music to really decode it, but I do know that they are saying something about her day. It mesmerizes her, the mix of novel and familiar, and certainly does more to keep her awake than put her to sleep.

Then he overtook the afternoon walks. How could a trip in a pushchair compare with ridding on top of someone's shoulders while he run down the sidewalk all catching a criminal pace and you clutch his wild curls with your chubby baby fists.

Then he took over bath time, because of course a chemist would be able to construct the largest and strongest bubbles known to man.

And now, apparently my own daughter would not eat without him. I hand her over, "Can you try to get some into her stomach this time?"

At least he'll leave me the nappies.

-0-

I'd meant to put Rosie in day care when I returned to work. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock both took personal offense to the suggestion. I couldn't trust Sherlock by himself of course. He rarely remembered who was in the room, and couldn't be trusted to feed himself, let alone others. But Mrs. Hudson promised to check in on them regularly, and she'd never been known to forget to offer food to someone.

She hasn't had to step in very often. Apparently, my daughter works even better than Sherlock's skull, or the balloon, or just the idea that I am there all the times he didn't even know I'd left the room.

"Ah! But the face is purposely distorted! That is part of the disguise! Quite right Rosie!"

"You know she's getting to the age that she can probably understand you."

"Yes, and the more words that they hear at this age the better," he responds pointing to the parenting book. The one he read when Rosie moved in. The one that causes him to think he's an expert of childrearing and can now trump all of the decisions of her actual father.

"My point is maybe we should not talk to her about murder," I say scooping her up, and giving her a kiss on the cheek which she returns with significantly more moisture than mine had.

"This one wasn't a murder. The 'victim' was not really dead."

"Taking tips from you huh?" I ask.

He makes that smile where he knows you are funny, but he doesn't want to admit it. The one that only quirks one-eighth of his mouth.

"I'm going to polish off this case, and then dinner?" he asks with nervousness that I don't understand.

"What would you like me to make?" he asks.

"No, out," he says with bulging eyes.

"Okay," I agree wishing now for the deductive powers of my friend.

"I'll pick you up in an hour," he says putting his collar up, and swishing out of the room with his long coat.

"Something fishy is going on," I say to my daughter, "No doubt the dinner is part of a case." I know as I say it that it's not quite right, but I don't know how to revise my guess.

"Well, let's get you some dinner before Daddy's mad flat mate returns," I say cheerfully carrying her into the dining room.

-0-

"How was your day?" he asks. I just stare at him open mouthed unable to formulate a response.

"What are you doing?" I ask suspiciously.

"I'm showing concern. Am I doing it wrong?" he asks. He begins to poke the ice in his water glass with a fork, and accidently flicks it into the air, and onto the table.

"Why exactly are you showing concern?" I ask him.

"If you don't want to answer the question you don't have to," he says slipping the runaway ice cube onto his plate.

"I dunno, it was work. Patients had problems, I was able to solve most of them."

"Most?" he asks.

I lean back in my chair, "Can you just skip the part where you're clever and I'm confused, and just explain to me what you're doing."

He starts to play with another piece of ice, this one lands in my glass and splashes water across my plate.

He opens his mouth to answer me, but before he can the owner arrives at our table. It's only then that I realize where we are, the restaurant we went to back when we first met. With the grateful housebreaker not murder.

"Candles, Sherlock?" the owner asks.

"We're still not a couple," I say, but just like always, I'm not heard. He's already gone to fetch the candles.

"So, you were going to tell me what was going on, Sherlock?" I ask as the owner disappears.

He has a far away look on his face, and doesn't seem to hear me.

"Sherlock?"

"Sorry," he says snapping out of it. I find myself longing for that facial expression to return, "It was a bet."

"A bet?"

"With Mycoft. He didn't think I was capable of small talk."

"Well he was right."

His eyes twinkle, "Maybe you could teach me."

I never thought I'd see the day where the great Sherlock Holmes asked me for torturing, but there it is.


	2. The Undrugged Cuppa

It's never good when Sherlock lays down in his chair. Usually it means he's sick, and most of the time when he's sick it's because he's high, or has been high.

"You've got a list?" I ask him with a sigh.

"I'd make you one, but I don't think I could spell right now," he mutters.

"Can you still speak?" I ask him.

"Whiskey, vodka," he mutters.

It's only the second time I've ever seen him drunk. "Sherlock, where is Rosie?"

"She's in your room, nap time," he says with his eyes going to my face with more focus than I'd seen since entering the room.

I look around, "Where is the monitor then?"

"I gave it to Mrs. Hudson before I started drinking," he says sadly, slowly.

I should go upstairs, and check on my daughter, but right now he needs me more. I just wait, because the man has a desperate need to hear his own voice. He always keeps speaking no matter what, even when no one is listening.

"I thought I would find a way to shut it off," he says.

"What?"

"My brain. Stimulants work so well on it. I thought if I had a depressant it would work just as effectively. I just wanted at little peace. A little quiet," he says tapping his head.

"It didn't work?"

"No, it made all the interesting thoughts, the distracting ones, go away, and made all the ones that I wanted to be distracted from take root in my head," he says with a sad glassed over look in his eyes.

I stare at him now, making a medical assessment. He's going to be fine. There may be vomit in his near future, and he's certainly going to be hung over tomorrow, but he's not in any sort of danger. "I'm going to go check on Rosie, now," I tell him. Still feeling a little reluctant to leave his side.

He nods, and then looks me straight in the eyes for an uncharacteristic moment of honesty, "Thank you, John."

"For what?" I ask. I've certainly done a lot more difficult and arduous favors for him then comforting him when he was drunk. Over the years I have made him an ocean worth of tea, and I've washed blood out of his clothes, fetched him things he certainly could have fetched for himself, and the number of times I've dropped whatever I was doing in my life in order to meet his whims is something I can't even count.

But now? I get a thank you.

"For everything," he mutters breaking eye contact, and curling further into the couch.

-0-

When Sherlock first sets the cup of tea next to me I just figure that he made it for himself (a miracle in itself) and wondered off and forgot it. It wouldn't be the first time that that had happened. After a few minutes he seems to be nervous (even more nervous than usual) he says, "Aren't you going to drink your tea?"

"You made me tea?" I ask incredulously.

"Yes!" he says cheerfully.

"What did you put in it?"

"Nothing!" he says looking very offended.

"I did listen to the wedding speech, Sherlock, I'd prefer not to miss another Wednesday."

"Fine!" he says pouting, "Don't drink the tea." He goes over to the violin and begins playing a song. After a while he pauses to jaunt down a note on the paper. A Sherlock composing is Sherlock full of emotion. Not for the first time since meeting him I wished I'd studied clarinet a lot more, and then I would know what this emotion meant.

I look into his face seeing emotions that go far beyond the annoyance. I pick up the tea, and take a long sip. It's good tea, and he remembered that I don't take sugar this time. The music changes with my first sip. Softer, sweeter. I look up at him seeing something in his face I've never seen before. His face is usually so full of sharp angles, intelligence, deductions, and thoughts. Now with the music flowing around it the face goes all soft and gentle. The lips which only know how to smile by fractions now curve into something that approaches real smile.

I turn my chair to watch him play, and take another sip of the tea.

His eyes close, and the speed of the music increases. It's just a fragment of a song right now, but he is choosing to repeat the song again and again instead of composing something new.

That's probably for the best.

-0-

Usually, Sherlock does not text me. Texting someone requires noticing that someone is not in the room, locating the phone (or taking it out of your pocket), and then actually forcing your fingers to go through the work of typing a message. All things that Sherlock usually relies on me to do for him.

So, when the text messages started coming in I was more than a little worried.

Sherlock: How are you?

John: Did someone kidnap you?

Sherlock: No.

John: Is there a gun pointed at my head?

Sherlock: I hope not.

John: *sigh* What do you need?

The jumping dots appear next to his name as he types for a long time. Then they disappear. Then they reappear.

Sherlock: I want for naught.

-0-

A delightful smell reaches my nose as I walk into the apartment building. The smell of roasted meat and vegetables. Mrs. Hudson must be cooking. The smell continues all the way up the stairs, to our flat, where Sherlock is setting the table (with all chemistry implements removed) with Rosie perched on his hip.

"What are you doing?" I ask suspiciously. "Is this some sort of an experiment? It's not human is it?"

"No," he says.

"So, you went shopping, and cooked a meal?" I ask.

"Yep!" he says proudly handing me the baby while going to open up the oven, and take the roast out.

"It's been a while since your last case hasn't it?" I asked.

"Nonsense! I solved one just this morning," I reply.

It's curious, because this doesn't look like a bored Sherlock, but it also doesn't look like any Sherlock I have ever known before.

"Everything okay?" I ask him again seriously.

His eyes complete a little dance with the light before they answer, "Everything is great."

-0-

It felt good to be on the case with Sherlock again. I'd listened to clients since moving back to Baker's street of course, in my place across from Sherlock. I'd listened to his summaries of what he'd done during the day with the baby monitor in my hand. I just hadn't left the flat to run around with my mad detective in a while.

It felt good to run next to him again. It felt good to hear the pompous superior way that he talked above the police, solving a mystery with the things in front of their face that they seemed unable to see.

He was more alive like this, with his nose in a case, than he could ever be any other time.

While he sniffed (literally) around the body a young police woman caught my eye. She flirted, lightly. It was too soon after Mary of course, by I volleyed the flirts back out of politeness. She slipped her number to me, and I held it in my palm. I remembered though, the other number, from when Mary was still alive, and knowing that this note was made of fire, and that if I kept it in my hands too long it would burn me.

I crinkled it when it was out of sight. I threw it, when I passed a trash can on the way out.

Sherlock is silent in the taxi, "You solved it right?" I ask.

"It was an easy one," he says through gritted teeth. He is bored already. Again, already.

He leans back and closes his eyes. He feels farther from me than he ever has before.

"Sherlock?" I ask.

"She's fifteen years younger than you, dropped out of college because she's a dolt, and sleeps naked with the window open," she observes.

"Who?" I ask.

He waves one hand, "The girl. The girl with the number."

I smile looking at him. So loyal to Mary still. "I threw the number away."

He turns his head at me, and peers at me from across the taxi for a long moment. "Because of Mary, of course."

He nod my head slowly, carefully.

"Mary," he mutters once more time closing his eyes.


	3. The East Wind Blows

Mrs. Hudson is holding on to Rosie's hands, walking her back and forth in the hallway.

"Is Sherlock working a case?" I ask her.

"I think he went to visit his sister, my dear."

I was more than a little bit taken a back. Generally, he needed a lot of soothing, compliments, and extra cups of tea for days before and after he went to visit Euros. I put out my arms to my daughter hoping that she'll let go of the comfort of Mrs. Hudson and try walking toward me. As daring as my daughter is she's not a huge fan of falling, and she had learned early on that it was the inevitable result of her attempting to walk. Mr. Hudson walks her over to me. She gives me her usual kiss which leaves my cheek wet.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I say sincerely.

She looks at the little girl with a smile in her eyes, "Any time. Your daughter is an utter delight."

The flat feels empty somehow, without it's constant occupant. He had clearly left for Sherenford at some point after feeding Rosie breakfast. He had, as was typical for him in the post-back on Baker street sweetness, attempted to clean up the resulting disaster. Also, in typical Sherlock fashion, very little cleaning actually occurred.

Perhaps, Mrs. Hudson is right, and someone should have a talk with his mother. Then again, considering the age he went off to school, I've been living with Sherlock for as long as his parents did. I'm responsible for enabling as much as they are.

Rosie looks around obviously having expected that Sherlock was merely hiding from her in the upstairs.

"He'll be home in a few days," I promise her opening up the fridge to find something for supper. He's left us not only one meal, but two. Each of us have our favorite.

-0-

"Rosie, please go to sleep," I say bouncing the little girl after telling her the third story.

She points to the violin with determination. She's become adept at using gestors to communicate. I was hoping it was a prequal to her using words, but I'm beginning to worry that it's become a substitute.

"I'm sorry, Rosie girl, but he won't be coming home tonight. You are simply going to have to go to bed without him."

Her face puckers up giving me a great deal of warning before she begins to wail. I still can't stop it. Only Sherlock could, and he's not here.

My phone chirps, and I pull it out to read a message from Sherlock, "Violin music on mp3 player under skull."

I smile. "Rosie, I'm going to get Sherlock's music for you, just to wait."

The music isn't enough though. It only reduces her wail to a whimper.

Another text.

"If that doesn't work there is a cardboard cut out of me playing violin behind my bedroom door."

It doesn't fool her, but she's entertained by his antics. He's entertaining her from afar. When I finally get my little girl to sleep I fall asleep as well without even changing into my pajamas. After all, I do enough running when Sherlock is around. I might as well use this infrequent absence to catch up on my sleep.

Anther chirp of the phone.

"Goodnight John."

I stare at the message for a long time, before I type my reply, "You okay?"

"Yes," he replies quickly.

"To quote you…family is always difficult," I reply.

"Not this time. We're getting along."

"Good. Goodnight, Sherlock," I respond. I don't feel like going to sleep though. I slip out of the room and return to the sitting room to avoid waking up my daughter by my restlessness. I turn the music back. It was repeating Rosie's song, again and again. But when I turn the music on it's only a few seconds before a new song begins. It's not my daughter's song anymore.

It's the song he only plays for me.

I stand up and move into his chair. I've never sat here before, but just then, it was the only place in the world that I belonged. I lay down.

Chirp.

"Wrong way John. Much more comfortable with your head away from the fireplace."

I shift position. Damn him, he's right.

Chirp.

"I'm always right, John."

-0-

I hadn't meant to fall asleep in Sherlock's chair. Yet I find myself waking the next morning to the stare of my flat mate as he sips upon his tea from the vantage point of my chair.

"How is Euros?" I ask.

"Genius," he replies taking a sip, "I got her to talk this time."

"Really? What did she say?" I say sitting up.

"She said hi to you, John," Sherlock smiles.

"That's nice," I say. Then I notice that there is way too much sun coming through the window. At least if it was as early as I thought it was, "What time is it?"

"After ten," he replies.

"Why isn't Rosie up?" I say jumping up, "She's never slept beyond eight o'clock."

I can hear the sound of Sherlock following me up the stairs. The room is empty. "Sherlock, please tell me you kidnapped my daughter again."

"No, I'll go see if Mrs. Hudson…" he begins.

Then his phone rings, his sister fills the screen, "Good morning Sher."

"Euros, do you have her?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh no, I don't think that a prison is a good place for a little girl. I should know. She's with someone safe."

"How do we get her back?" he demands.

"Oh, you're going to have to play a little game for me," she says with a smile.

"Euros! John's daughter is not a plaything! This is not a game!" Sherlock demands.

"Sherlock, tell John about the deduction you've made about him. The one you haven't told him," Eros demands.

"Which one? There are many," Sherlocks says sizing me up.

"The one you would never tell him you knew about," she demands.

Sherlock closes his eyes, "No, Euros. Please don't do this."

"The secret? It's worth little Rosie's life?" Euros asks sounding surprised.

"Sherlock, please tell her whatever she wants. Don't think about me, only think about Rosie," I demand.

A tear leaks out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, "It's not about what I tell her. She already knows. It's about what you're going to know, know that I know."

I grab unto elbow, "Sherlock, I'm not afraid of what you've seen in me."

"You grew up in a small town didn't you, John?" Sherlock begins as if the words were drawn out of him against his will.

"That's the big revelation? Yeah, tiny town," I admit.

"Henry, came out of the closet young, yeah? Couldn't have been easy for her," he continues.

I try not to glare at him if this was coming out of nowhere. I can't make this harder.

"Had something to do with her becoming an alcoholic no doubt. When we first met, the way you pressed upon me the idea that you were very much okay with whatever my sexual orientation was. It was like the default was…the assumption was it wouldn't be okay with people."

I know what he knows now, and he does to, because of the gasp that leaves my mouth against my will, and for a second he thinks it's enough. Perhaps Euros will accept a partial offering.

"And…" she prompts.

Sherlock opens his eyes and focuses on my face. "I should have told you that day, that it was all fine with me as well, John."

"I'm not gay," I insist, softly.

"Nice choice of words, that. You say those words, you say we're not a couple. You never say you're straight. Your moral code is so interesting. It wouldn't allow you to lie, but concealing is fine."

Euros claps her hands, "I want John to say it!" she explains.

Sherlock has to make it easier, he knows that, "John, I agree with what you told me when we first met, it's all fine."

"I'm bisexual," I whisper toward him.

"I know, and you've protected yourself. Dating only women, no one can judge you, no one can hurt you…" Sherlock says in sympathy.

"First challenge passed," the voice says over the phone as Sherlock examines my face, attempting deductions as to my mental state. "For the second challenge, dear brother, Watson is going to need to go downstairs, and get his cell phone."


	4. Usually I Miss the Grief

"Now Watson, it's not fair that the two of you get to play with his sister, and not your own," the voice over the phone teases.

"Please don't make me hurt Harry, her liver can only take so much," I plead.

"You're not going to hurt her, you're going to make her very happy," Eurus giggles, "You have to tell her."

Sherlock walks away in frustration for a second, and then makes the rapid turn back which has become his habit. "She wants you to tell her…" Then he pauses glaring at the phone.

"Harry knows I'm bisexual. She's about the only person that knows," I tell him.

"Of course, she knows. Why else would you be estranged? She's angry that you were able to hide when she could not. That is not what she wants you to tell you sister," Sherlock says exasperated.

"Tell him Sherlock," Eros says playfully. Sherlock shakes his head.

"Sherlock!" I grit through my teeth, "Rosie!"

"You're supposed to say that we're in a relationship. That you're dating a man," Sherlock mutters.

"Why would you want me to lie?" I yell toward Eros.

"Oh, the only lie is the one you're telling yourself. He makes you tea now. Tea without chemicals added to it. He's never done that for anyone before. Not even family!"

Sherlock slams his eyes shut a bit too fast, fast enough that I realize there is some truth to what she says.

"Sherlock," I plead. What is the point of all of his cleverness if it isn't clever enough to get us out of this?

"It's another soldier day. Your only choice is your sister's emotions, or your daughter's safety," Sherlock says lightly touching my shoulders with each hand.

"Right," I say hoping I at least had the stomach for this. I didn't have enough stomach last time it mattered, and because of that a man died. I open my phone, closing my eyes really tight for a few seconds, then the fingers start dancing across the keys.

"Harry, Sherlock and I have started dating. I wanted you to be the first to know."

My thumb quivers over the send button.

"When she asks you to dinner, you'll say yes," Eurus prompts.

The chirp of his phone causes me to look down. I chuckle, "Brunch."

"Well, even a Holmes can't get it right all the time," Eurus says with a shrug. "I'll need proof of the message."

I try to hold my phone before the picture on Sherlock's phone.

"No, show it to my brother. Who do you think all of this is for?" Eurus asks.

"I didn't ask for this, Eurus!" Sherlock shouts in frustration.

"Oh, brother mine," she says in a perfect imitation of Mycroft, "You never have to ask. Second challenge passed, now for this one brother, you're going to have make your own confession."

"John, can you turn your back to me, please? You have to make it easier for me," Sherlock requests. I raise my eyebrow, but then obey. "I didn't decide what my sexual orientation was for a really long time. I didn't think about it, because I didn't see myself with anyone. Ever. I didn't even have a friend," he points the next comment at the phone in his hand, "apart from the one my little sister drowned, apparently. I didn't like any connection to people, and frankly the whole idea of sex is so messy."

"Seriously?" I say turning around, "You keep human eyes in the microwave, but _sex_ grosses you out!"

"I wasn't talking about the sort of mess which can be cleaned with a shower, although frankly…"

"You were naked at Buckingham palace!" I object again.

"The emotional messy part of me was a bigger deal, and the distraction. I dated once, for a few months. It was

like having a lobotomy. I turned stupid the entire time I was with him."

"You dated a man?" I ask in complete shock.

"It was about a year before I met you. Didn't you ever wonder why everyone assumed you were my date?"

"I just thought it was the product in your hair," I tease causing Sherlock to smile, with almost all of his face.

"I didn't get anything out of it either. I saw that this sort of thing made others happy. I could pretend to be happy. It was empty though. Just like when I tried to make friends at school. Just like all human interaction was for me."

I try to turn around, but the firm grip on my shoulder will not allow me, "It's not empty with you John. Not since the first day. You unlocked the friendship part of me, and allowed me to have that with other people, to a lesser degree. But you are the only person…" Sherlock stops.

"Rosie is waiting, Sher," Eurus reminds him.

"John, I feel things for you I never have for anyone else."

"Don't forget the scary part, Sherlock!" Eurus prompts.

If I didn't know better I would think that sound coming from my friend was a sob. "Please, Eros," he whispers, "I don't want to put that pressure on him."

I reach a hand back offering it to my friend, "Nothing you could ever say would hurt me more than my daughter in danger."

Sherlock takes the hand he offered, giving it a quick squeeze before rushing on "I am way closer to you than anyone else. I've never had romantic feelings for anyone else. I feel like…you're my only chance," he rushes on, "Which is fine, because I didn't expect to ever have a chance. I can get along quite well without any romance."

"And I would just distract you," I says teasing as I turn to face my friend, trying to make what he just shared lighter for him.

"No John, you're a stimulant, not a depressant. Being around you doesn't make me stupid. It doesn't make me miss all the interesting things."

"Showing off has its benefits," Eurus chuckles.

Then Sherlock forgets the point of the exercise, and just keeps talking. "You told me once that Mary made you the person she thought you were. That's what you do to me, John. You saw someone who never existed, who never would have existed. Then you went about making me. You gave me a heart, a soul, you woke me up, John. You made me whole, and that is whether or not you ever decided to date me."

"Yes, well, we passed onto the next challenge quite some time ago, but if you want to keep saying sweet things, and making moon eyes by all means go ahead," Eurus says.

"Just find Rosie, please," Sherlocks says with determination.

She smiles, and picks up the violin and begins playing.

"I don't understand…" John says.

"Shh!" Sherlock says harshly tilting his ear toward the music which is following from the screen.

When the song ends Sherlock says, "Get dressed, fast!"

"Why?" John asks.

"Obvious! We have to go to a crime scene!" he declares.

-0-

I am not unfamiliar with death. The first time I saw it was with my bulldog when I was six years old. Then the dead bodies, and the old women whose hand I held as she died in med school, and then the endless death I saw in war. Besides, this is not the first crime scene I've ever gone to with my friend.

Usually though. I don't have to see the grief. I think both my parents and Harry were relieved when the bulldog died. The old women had not had a single visitor in the three years she'd spent in the nursing home before her trip to hospital. In war you had no time for grief, even if it was you very best friend. The loved ones have usually been kindly removed before Sherlock and I arrive at a crime scene.

The wailing greets us long before we even get up to the flat whose address was apparently encoded in some song about grief that his sister played for him. The girl might not even have reached twenty, and she is bent over a body so fresh my first task is to walk up and check for pulse. It's not there.

"Did you dial 999?" I ask the girl, noticing for the first time that her dress, clearly put on this morning with the intent to go to work, is covered in the victim's blood.

She doesn't answer. "Never mind, Watson!" Sherlock says annoyed examining the body like he always wants to, with a lot of smelling and poking. He used to do more of that when we first met, but he's really begun to bow to social pressure, and respect for the body when there are other people in the room.

"I'm going to call then," I say taking my phone.

"No, you won't," the voice on the phone says.

Well if I'm not needed as a doctor, I can at least be human, "Come on," I say to the girl, "Let me make you some tea. You can tell me your name."

"He's dead," she says.

"I know. Do you know what happened to him?" I ask her since she is clearly not going to let go of the man who I assume is her father.

"He died."

"Knife wound," Sherlock says over his shoulder.

"Do you know who did this to him?" I ask the girl again.

"Nope!" Sherlock says holding up his hand, "It only counts if I do it."

I thought that all the sharing of the first few steps was the worst, but I was wrong. This is so much worse. I hope to God Eurus didn't have anything to do with the murder.

A giggled from the phone, "Oh, no go ahead and ask her."

"He did it!" she says pointing to the dead man.

"It was a suicide?" I ask shocked. I can't imagine this man doing this in front of his daughter. My stomach twists thinking of my own little girl. Even if I wanted to die, I would never put her through this trauma.

"No," she says sounding confused, "There were two of them!"

"She's hysterical, don't listen to her," Sherlock scolds.

"What do you mean, there were two of them?" I ask her.

"My father was stabbed by another version of my father!" she says.

"Sherlock," I say softly knowing what his objection will come before I even get to the question.

"It's never twins, John," he argues.

"Does your sister know that you say that? Because if she does, it would be just like her to pick the only time it actually was twins," I point out. I turn to the girl, "Does your father have siblings?"

"He refused to talk about his family," she sobbed. "I have no idea!"

Sherlock smiles just the quarter of a mouth smile he uses for his work, "Good one Eurus. Twins. Clearly his mob family, including hit man twin brother, were not happy about having him escape. Took them long enough to find them though, her American accent is almost gone," he observes of the blood soaked girl before him.

"It took so long, because no everyone has your brilliant skills of deduction, brother dear," Eurus says.

"I didn't notice any American in her accent," I observe.

"Look how much he msises! It is interesting to me how often you rely on John Watson's intuition over your logic and deductions. He understands almost nothing, but yet you value his contributions as if they mattered," she says. "You are correct, go ahead and call the police. But don't stay until they come. I've got another song for you," she says picking up the violin once again.


	5. Playing the Bridge

"Thank you for introducing me to crap telly," Sherlock says as we approach the park.

"What are we doing here?" I ask him.

"That's not your baby," Sherlock says to a man walking past with a wife and an infant in a pram. "Neither of you have a chin cleft, and she does. Impossible. You should get a genetic test."

"Jesus, Sherlock, was that necessary?" I mutter as we continue to walk past the startled couple.

"Yes, it was," Eurus says laughing. "Nice job brother. I didn't even have to tell you which couple to look for."

"Now we get John's daughter back?" Sherlock asks.

"Two more, brother," she says. "Kiss John, in the park. With the eyes of strangers upon you."

He turns to me, leaning forward just enough to throw the ball into my court. I close my eyes against all the people who might be looking, knowing that most of them are not paying attention to strangers. Then I lean forward to place the lightest kiss upon his cheek possible. I'm sure it's not going to work, but I think we should start as chaste as we can and work our way up from there.

Sherlock seams to disagree. He moves his face so the intended cheek kiss falls upon his lips. My stomach jumps at the contact, and I feel as if my whole body is alight with electricity. There is a hand now on the back of my neck, because I wasn't returning the pressure, and he needs it desperately.

I'm pretty sure he's forgotten his sister is watching, or why we're doing this long before we break away.

"That will make a nice bridge in that song, eh, Sher?" Eurus says with a grin.

"Bridge to what?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she giggles, "You are innocent!"

God, I hope Eurus doesn't demand that as well, especially if she's determined to witness it.

"John, you seam to understand, and I don't…" Sherlock says softly.

"Sherlock is to private to write a song about sex," I tell Euros.

"He never even know he was doing it," she replies.

"Next clue, sister," Sherlock demands seaming to be distressed by the fact his sister is bothering me.

"This one will bring you to the little girl. Let's see, how you are at ciphers." She raises up her violin again, and this time there are words.

"Baby answers nothing, the itty noticing girl

Run to Papa

Little one

Or to Sherlock's arms."

Sherlock starts off at a run, but then he stops, glaring at the phone, "It's too simple. You're not even going to give me a skip cipher."

"It's the last cipher you got right when we were children," she says with longing.

"Eurus, you don't have to do all of this to get my attention. You would get more of the attention if you just asked for the attention, instead of threatening people," he says.

"Oh, but Sherlock, we've never been this close before!" Eurus says cheerfully.

He smiles, "It's not that simple is it. You wouldn't just put the address there, Banting 324. The address is just a clue."

"Well done, brother," she smiles.

He thinks with his violinist fingers moving up and down in the air as if he was manipulating things that were not there.

"The address you gave, the park you sent us to, the murder scene, Baker's street, a perfect star with one missing point. The missing point shows us where she is!" he declares.

I'm not sure I believe him. It seams more like magic than logic, but I've been around him long enough to know that most of his deductions look like magic. He's running before I have time to think it through, and I am running beside him, without so much as a thought. This is my place in life, running beside Sherlock Holmes.

-0-

The address that Sherlock calculated in his head, based on his strangely specific knowledge of London is a hotel.

"She could be anywhere," I say with worry.

"Bottom floor, there were so many references to smallness in the song," he observes.

"That's still a lot of space," I object, but Sherlock is already inside the hotel. There is Mrs. Hudson standing in the lobby.  
"Well, you took your sweet time getting here didn't you, boys?" she asks.

I run up to her frantic, "Were you hurt? Where is Rosie?"

"Hurt? If I could be hurt by you two being late I'd have died long ago," she says.

"Is Rosie here?" I repeat, but I notice that Sherlock is acting strangely. His brows furrow in that way they do when he has a headache, and he touches the veiny inside of his cocaine arm.

"Of course, dear, come on, people are waiting," she says taking each of us by the elbow, and walking us down the hallway. Sherlock continues to look at the crook in his own arm, even as it's connected with the crook of Mrs. Hudson's.

She throws open the doors to a ballroom to reveal a number of our family and friends talking and laughing. There she is, my daughter, laughing in Molly's arms.

"Rosie!" I exclaim at the same time that the little cherub exclaims, "Sewock!"

I look at my friend in surprise, to see that he's looking at the baby with a finger to his lips trying to keep the exclamation back.

"Not the first time then," I surmise while walking quickly toward her.

"Three days. I didn't tell you, because I kept trying to get her to say Dad before you heard it," he says.

By now Molly has handed my daughter over, and I hold her close, still not sure what is going on. "I don't understand how you got her."

"Sherlock hold me to go get her out of your room for the surprise party. He didn't tell you I had her?" Molly asks in surprise.

"Sherlock?" I say in shock looking at him.

"I might be remembering some things," Sherlock says looking horrified.

Eurus on the phone chimes in, "We made a video, Sher, in case that memory doesn't firm up."

His hand is shaking as he lifts the phone up so that I can see as well. It's Sherlock, with an IV in his arm. "I Sherlock Holmes, of my own free will put TD-12 in my body to…"

Then the voice of Mycroft. "Is the flare strictly necessary?"

"I have to explain to John, to myself why I did this," the video Sherlock says.

He did this? Sherlock did this. I have accused him of kidnapping my baby before, but it was a joke. This, what just happened today was anything but a joke.

"He knows why you're doing it, brother mine. You're crazy," Mycroft says annoyed.

"Tell them why you're doing it," Sherlock on the screen requests.

"My brother informed me that he was going to give my sister access to a phone. He thought it would be wise if she was supervised while using it," Mycroft replies glaring at the Sherlock on the video, "If you care to drug test him when you get the video I'm sure he'll still register."

The Sherlock in the room with me is looking at me with concern, and that's when I notice that I'm crying. I don't want to be crying. I want to be screaming. He deserves screaming, though the crying might actually hurt him more.

"John, I'm sure you're pretty mad right now," video Sherlock says.

"Sad. I got it wrong," the real one next to me whispers.

"I didn't just do it, because I was bored, or because I was high, although I will admit both facts go in heavily."

I am clutching my daughter so tightly that she complains with a little whimper, and I force myself to loosen my grip.

"I had to bring my sister back from the edge. I had to make her come alive again, in a way where no one would get hurt. And…" the video Sherlock pauses, "the tea wasn't working, Watson."

"Okay, give me the phone, sister mine, this stupid game is over now," Mycroft says his face looming large in the frame. Then he sighs, "I told him this wouldn't end well, John. I'm sorry."

Sherlock locks eyes with me. Making deductions. "I'll leave then."

"This is my daughter's first birthday part, and your name is literally the only thing she can say. You're not getting out of this. Bad enough you left my wedding early. We'll deal with this later."

"Was that Eurus?" Molly asked.

"I didn't want to talk about it," I say giving my daughter a kiss above her eyebrow, "Thank you all for putting this on. I really appreciate it."

"Sewock," she demands extending her arm to him.

"No, kiddo, Sherlock doesn't need to hold you unless he's clean," I tell her in such a serious voice that she doesn't dare to argue, and more amazing he didn't either.

"Was that always a rule?" Sherlock asks concerned.

"Seriously? No child care when you're high, and stop drugging my tea!" I exclaim.

"Noted," he says.

"It's been hard to keep the little one out of the cake and presents while we waited for you, think it's time?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

I nod and follow her. When I know we are clear of the listening radius of the detective I ask, "Sherlock set this up?"

"Weeks ago, dearie, you didn't think he'd let that little girl turn one without some sort of ridiculous party," she whispers.

"He is the most infuriating man I've ever met," I mutter.

"Yes, he does have that effect on people. But he is Sherlock Holmes, and for all of his flaws…" she breaths.

"He's our monster," I say quoting Mary. Mary. Another piece of this puzzle I'll have to work out. It's going to be a long day.


	6. Kissing the Bastard

I thought I was going to make it out of the flat without having to talk to Sherlock again, but he's been listening for the footfall on the one squeaky step. I always forget which one it is. He doesn't, not even high.

"Rosie asleep?" he asks softly moving aside so I could get into the sitting room without being close to him. As if that was going to happen tonight.

"Yes. I'm going to drop off the baby monitor with Mrs. Hudson. I'd appreciate it if you didn't check on Rosie. There could still be drugs in your system."

He nods glumly, "You're going out?"

"I fancied a pint," I mutter.

"You're not going alone, are you?" he asks.

"I'm certainly not inviting you," I say with bitterness in my voice that I didn't mean to put there.

"I realize. I was just hoping…" he says looking away.

"Molly's going to meet me," I tell him.

"Good," he nods.

I take a few steps past him before I pause and turn around, "I want to tell her what you did. All of it."

"Okay," he says.

"Including, the part about your being gay," I say.

"You told me it wasn't kind to tell people someone they were interested in was gay. You actually told me that specifically with Molly."

"This is different than Moriarti," I say with a chuckle.

"Well, tell her then," Sherlocks says.

"I will, because I want someone else to call you a bastard with me right now," I say walking down the remaining steps.

"Enjoy," he says.

-0-

Bastard was in fact the first word that came out of Molly's mouth after I finished the story. The next ones was not something I predicted, "So, you are a couple then?"

I just laughed at her.

"Come on John. He has no idea how to show affection for another human being, and then he makes this grand gesture…"

"He made me believe my daughter was kidnapped by a sociopath."

"I'm not saying he's right. I'm not saying he's sane. I'm saying that you're going to forgive and date him anyway, and you might as well not waste three months being pissed at Sherlock like you did with Mary."

Those months I lost with Mary are some of the biggest regrets of my life. If only I had known how few months I'd get wither. "You're right," I say.

"Set limits though, because God knows you'll need them if you are going to have a relationship with that madman. You've got to have that figured out before you agree," she says.

I nod my head taking a huge swing of beer.

"Of course, you also have to realize he will always be an asshole. You've got to expect it. You'll be miscible forever."

"Remind me why I'm dating him again?" I say joking.

"Because, John, Sherlock has been the biggest obsession in your life. He's a huge piece of who you are, and it's time," she observes.

"You okay?" I ask.

"I've been trying to get over Sherlock for a long time. I'm relieved to finally have a damned good reason. Cheering for some of my best friends being together is a good reason. I'm going to be fine John."

-0-

Sherlock is pouting in the fetal position on the chair when I come down late the next morning with a head still swimming from hangover. At first, I think it's bored pouting, which honestly is the last thing I need right now. Then I think it's high pouting which might have ended the whole thing for me. Then I realize that it's not pouting at all, it's grief. He thinks he's lost me, and he's grieving hard.

He looks up at me, staring at my empty arms for a long second confused. "Rosie's spending a bit of time with Mrs. Hudson. We need to talk." There had been worry in the look too. Even though he was completely to blame for that disaster the other day, it had affected him too. He'd worried about my little girl as much as I had.

He doesn't sit up, and I sit down in my chair across from him. "The first bit is nonnegotiable. I'm tempted right now to eliminate any time where you are near Rosie without me in the room. But Rosie has already lost her mother. She doesn't need to lose another one of the most important people in her life. So, you get another chance. For her, not you. You will never be in the same room as her when high, or within a day of having been high. You will never slip any drugs on her, ever, for any reason. You will ask permission of me before you take her out of this flat, or before you leave her with Mrs. Hudson or Mollie, and you will never leave her under the supervision of anyone but them. I am sure there is a lot of other shit I can't think of that would be dangerous or stupid, and you're not going to do any of that with her either. If you mess up, in any way, you are down to supervised visits, got it?"

He nods.

"Good. I have some questions for you now. How long have you felt this way about me?" I ask finding the question strangely hard to ask through the lump in my throat.

"My feelings for you have greatly deepened over time of course, but I found you interesting from the very beginning. I did try to let you know. I asked you on quite a few dates in the beginning."

"We never went on dates."

"There was dinner by candlelight, a late-night Chinese, and the circus," he says.

"I made it quite clear none of those were dates," I object.

"I know, which is why I let it go. Being friends with you was enough. After time pasted I became more afraid to risk that."

"If we do this, if we start to date thing are going to have to change."

"How so?" he asks.

"First of all, you're not allowed to drug me anymore. Really, you shouldn't have been doing that anyway."

"You haven't provided me with a reason why."

I desperately search for logic Sherlock will agree too, "Because if you do, I will grow the mustache back."

He actually recoils, "People will think I'm dating an old man."

"God you are vain!" I exclaim.

"Obvious, that's why I keep you around to exclaim, 'brilliant' whenever I pause in my speech," he grins.

"If we do this, it can't be a game, between you and I. It had to be serious, and slow, and separate from the running around London, separate from Rosie, even," I tell him.

"I'm not very good at this, John. I don't really know what I'm doing," he says looking worried, "You're going to have to help me."

"I've never dated a man before, Sherlock, you might be the one helping me," I point out.

We stare at each other for a bit, with funny things going on in my stomach.

"I'd better get Rosie," I say standing up.

"Wait," he says standing up. The room between the two chairs is barely enough room for both of us to stand. We're close together. Close enough I can tell his breath is uneven. His eyes searching mine. Not for a deduction. Or at least only to deduce my emotional state.

"Are you going to kiss me or are we going to stand here all day?" I ask.

"On the cheek?" he asks.

"If you like," I respond.

And there it is. The kiss from before. Only somehow sweater this time. He doesn't put his hand on the back of my head either, because this time I'm reacting. I'm giving him everything he needs. My hand though, finds it's way into the hair. The slightly crunchy hair.

"Use a bit of product do you?" I tease when we finally break for air.

"Are you asking because you want to borrow it to complete your coming out of the closet?" he teases back.

"I was going to take Rosie to her favorite park. You want to come?" I ask.

He nods.

"You are clean, right Sherlock?" I ask.

"I wouldn't risk losing Rosie, John. Ever."


	7. The Immovable Dressing Gown

Rosie doesn't ask Sherlock to hold her like she usually does when she enters the room. A few refusals have caused her to stop expecting being held by him, but he takes her out of Mrs. Hudson's arms, and she cuddles into the Sherlock's chest.

"Good morning, Ms. Rosie," he whispers. "Do you want to go to the park with Daddy and me?"

"Da," she says with a smile.

I hate to take her out of his arms so soon after putting her in it, but she just called me Dad! I fling my arms out to her, and she leaps in. "Good girl!" Sherlock only gives me enough time to give her a quick hug before he lifts her up on his shoulders. She grips onto curls in each hand.

"Doesn't that hurt?" I ask.

"It doesn't hurt as much as it makes her happy," he says. Apparently, my heart skipping a beat is going to be a regular occurrence. I might need to do an echocardiogram on myself tomorrow at work. Just to be sure it's not, you know, medically induced.

-0-

Grass gives Rosie her courage back. She toddles along the ground fearlessly letting go of our hands as she takes a step or two in between us. Walking, my baby girl. At first she just sort of leans between the two of us with a clumsy half step. Then two steps, with an occasional fall on the grass. Soon three steps, and four. By the time her exhaustion overcomes her joy and desperate desire to give us joy, she's gotten pretty at walking around the park with us.

She wants to walk home, and cries a little when I won't let her. Sherlock clearly wants to let her, and pleads at me with his face.

"She only gets whinny when she's overtired," I comment.

"Swook," she says holding up her arms to him by way of compromise.

"You want up?" he asks her as she obeys her command.

"Up," she agrees pleasantly.

Three words now. I can't believe how quickly her vocabulary is expanding. I start walking beside them, and Sherlock's hand reaches out to grasp mine. I turn to smile him, and I feel like sunlight is pouring off both of their faces. A giggle ripples out of my daughter.

-0-

Sherlock got Rosie to sleep as he usually did, by violin in the sitting room. However, I somehow managed to jostle her awake when putting her into her cot. I took the opportunity to tell her bedtime stories, as I'd been meaning to for so long. She is old enough now that she needs the words, and is old enough that she can actually understand them. She is enthralled by them, but seams to view them as a poor substitute for music.

The door peeks open, "Sorry," Sherlock says suddenly bashful to be in my bedroom, even though it is far from the first time that he was there. It is of course, the first time since we started dating this morning, "I thought you might have went to bed."

"Little miss woke up," I whisper.

He enters, and I see he's wearing his pajamas, and a dressing gown.

"I can take her," he whispers again.

I hand her over, and watch as he bounces her back and forth. Her too tired eyes slowly closing. A few more rocks, and she doesn't object as he moves her over to the cot.

Sherlock looks from me to the bed a few times looking nervous. Then he takes a seat. "Are you going to get ready for bed?"

"You're staying up here?" I ask a little concerned that the kidnapping has traumatized him, even if he was the cause of it.

"Is that okay?" he looks at me a little frantically, and I know in a second that this has nothing to do with Rosie.

"It's great, but Rosie's in the room so things will have to stay rather chaste."

"I agree. I was kept in my parent's room for far too long for someone of my memory and intelligence. I am pretty sure I witnessed my sister's conception."

"You didn't even know you had a sister until this year."

"That doesn't mean I can't do math."

I walk over to my burau, select a pair of pajamas, and start heading to the bathroom downstairs all under Sherlock's watchful eye.

When I return, a little later he is laying, under the covers, still in his dressing gown. It's on Mary's side of the bed. Not that Mary was ever in this bed, but any bed of mine will always have a side for Mary.

"You going to wear the dressing gown all night?" I ask suppressing a giggle.

"Yes," he says trying to look regal in the bed.

"Really? Maybe I need to dress up for the occasion."

"No," he says.

"Are you sure? Mrs. Hudson is not the only person who knows where you keep your second-best dressing gown."

He reaches across the bed, and grabs unto one of my wrists. I allow him to pull me into the bed. "I am not used to this sort of thing, John. I've avoided it out of fear for a really long time," he looks scared. There he is, in my bed, terrified I'm going to reject him

I lay down facing him, "If wearing a dressing gown is the only thing which provides you with he courage to crawl into my bed I'm all for it."

He smiles at me, a little quarter of his mouth, and I want all of his mouth right now. I give him a goodnight kiss, sweat and soft. Then, I scoot toward him on the bed, folding myself into his chest quite comfortably. Only, it's not as comfortable as I had imagined. It's not right. It's the way I'd always thought I'd cuddle the great detective, but it's not working.

"That's not right, John," he whispers, and I'm relieved he agrees with me. "You're always the one protecting me not the other way around." He turns from me, and for a moment I feel the loss of the contract fiercely. He glances over his shoulder at me with a look of worry and longing. Anther scoot and I find myself fitting quite snuggly against the back of his body. We fit perfectly. The doctor in me knows that that would be true of almost any random humans, that that is just the way anatomy works. The doctor in me is not here right now, and I know that there is no one on the planet which fits together quite as well as Sherlock and I do.

I feel a contented sigh emit from Sherlock. "Goodnight, John."

-0-

I'm surprised when I feel my body still pressed against Mary's when I wake up. She rolls away from me in the night, preferring not to be touched while sleeping. I should have known about her secret identity long before I did, because only a person who has been through trauma avoid touch like that.

I just thought it was trauma whatever disaster happened to her parents that she would never tell me about.

Still, she's pressed up against me.

I wake up a bit more, and realize, not Mary. Sherlock. I roll away from him like he's on fire, and sit up finding myself winded within an inch of a panic attack by my grief and guilt all mixed together.

"John?" I hear him say as he reaches for me.

I jump back not wanting physical comfort from him right now.

"Nightmare? Flashback?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"The war? Some trauma I put you though?"

"Guilt," I managed to get out.

His face turns angry, and it takes a little while for me to realize that he's not angry at me. "Mary," I choke out.

His face changes, "I thought you were feeling guilt about being with a man," he says.

"No, I woke up, and for minute…" I stop because I'm not sure how he's going feel about having just been mistaken for my dead wife.

"I wish she'd let me die, so she could still live. You should still be with her John."

I don't even know what I wish anymore. I wish of course that neither one of them had to die, but I am very grateful it didn't have to be me who choose which one died. Perhaps I've been around Eurus too long that I was even thinking about that.

I'm sobbing, and his arms are around me. Standing it works, though it hadn't laying down last night.

"Op!" from Rosie's cot.

"What honey?" I ask turning to her, and trying to chase all of the clouds away from my face.

"Op!" she demands again, and when I pick her up she frantically tries to swipe the tears away from my face.

"I think she's trying to tell you to stop crying," Sherlock whispers intimately close to my ear.

"Yeah, I got that."

"Sorry, Rose," I tell her. "Daddy was missing your Mum, but he's going to get happier now, because you're here, and you always make your Daddy's day."


	8. The Missing Wednesday

"She'll be here," Sherlock says looking up at me as he tucks a bib under Rosie's chin.

"How exactly did you deduce that?" I ask him critically.

"It's not a deduction, but if she doesn't come on her own, I'll go and fetch her for you."

"Like you would know where to find her."

He holds up a phone which has a shockingly accurate list of Harry's favorite bars.

"Do you spy on my sister?" I ask in amazement.

"Homeless network," he replies putting Rosie down in a high chair and making funny faces at her until she stops fussing at being apart from him.

"You don't use the homeless network to spy on me, do you?" I ask.

"You looked at the menu yet?" he asks passing one my way.

"Sherlock?" I press with raised eyebrows.

He sighs, "Only when strictly necessary."

"What exactly constitutes strictly necessary in your book?"

"If you were in danger, John, I would stop at nothing to get you safe," he says seriously.

I'm still basking in the loving words Harry pulls me out of my seat and into a hug. "Well John! It sure took you long enough to come out!" she announces at a level which is much too loud, but which I try hard to pretend I don't care about. I really don't want to offend either of them even though being "out" is still painfully new for me.

She doesn't hug Sherlock, but does plop down in the seat across from him. It's only then that her eyes fall on Rosie. Her nose crinkles up like when she was a teenager assigned dish duty, "I didn't realize you were bringing the baby."

"I thought you might like to meet your niece," I respond.

"Hi baby," she says in passing, "I hope we can still drink around it."

"Her, and I'd prefer if you didn't drink around your brother," Sherlock says protectively.

"Oh please, it's not like my drinking resulted in John running around with murders and mobsters," Harry defends.

"No, but it does make him worry," Sherlock defends.

"Right, because he's never worried about you," she snarks back.

I flit a glare at each of them, first Sherlock, then my sister. "Can we try to get through this meal nicely?" I ask just in time for the waiter to come. The truce lasts just long enough for Harry to order to drink, and Sherlock, with uncharacteristic possessiveness to order tea for both of us.

Then Harry continues, "I just don't understand why you couldn't have found a nice normal bloke. You finally come out of the closet, and you go for a mad dangerous one who uses drugs, and fakes his own death, and breaks your heart. I could set you up with someone you know," she says.

"I'm good," I say smiling at Sherlock who looks strangely uncertain right now. "Sherlock Holmes is the only person I would consider being with right now."

He glows in his compliment.

"Wewe," Rosie declares.

"Does it speak French?" Harry asks.

"Nope, bathroom time," Sherlock says starting to lift the girl out of the highchair.

"I can take her," I offer.

"I've got it," he assures me. As he walks away I can hear him praising her up and down for telling him that it was time to be changed. We should probably start potty training. She's young for it, but I feel like she's ready. I just hate to suggest it since Sherlock is the one home with her for hours a day, and would be putting in most of the work.

Sherlock tells her some joke, and she giggles in that hilarious way that warms my heart.

"Well, look at that, my brother with moon eyes. I've never seen that."

"It's not my fault you were blacked out and passed out for most of the time I knew Mary," comes out of my mouth before I could stop it.

"Why did you even agree to come if you were just going to make digs at me?" she asks.

I almost tell her, because a psychopath made me, but instead I say, "I'm sorry Harry, I will try harder." Because she's family damn it, and lord knows that my daughter is thin enough in that category already.

I notice that Sherlock seems to be taking the long way back from the bathroom, and then I see him distract the waiter while he drops something into a mimosa which is heading toward the table. I wait until the waiter is gone before I say, "Don't drink that, Harry."

"Seriously? Weren't you trying to be nicer?" she asks.

"You can drink. Just not that particular drink," I say pulling it out of reach.

"Why not?" she asks.

Sherlock joins us, and I know there is no way to get out of this without telling, "Sherlock, we agreed you were going to stop drugging people's drinks."

"No, I agreed to stop drugging your drink."

"He drugs you? Jesus, John! You can't live with this man! Come and stay with me like you should have all along," my sister pleads.

"Disulfiram," Sherlock says by way of a full and complete explanation.

Well, who would have thought that drugging my sister's drink was actually kind of nice.

"What?" she asks.

"It would have made you sick every time you drank alcohol for a short while," I say. "Still not okay, Sherlock."

"Let's go back to what he drugs you with, date rape drugs?" she asks concerned.

"Sometimes," Sherlock replies.

I glare at him.

"That was the time you lost the Wednesday," he explains smiling at me.

"John, seriously," she says looking at me frantically.

"It was an experiment years ago. He didn't actually rape me, Harry. He would never do that," I explain.

Sherlock's delicate violinist fingers dance across the table to touch mine without grabbing them.

"John, I'm really worried about you," she says softly.

"Euros was wrong. Us dating doesn't make Harry happy," Sherlock observes.

I flinch.

"Who is Euros?" Harry asks.

"Sherlock's sister," I say begrudgingly.

"She's the reason we're having lunch with you…" Sherlock begins, and I shake my head at him before he can go further.

"Really, John? You listen when his sister tells you something, but not when your own does?" she demands.

"Well, when that sister is a psychopath who he thought kidnapped his daughter…" Sherlock says before I can stop him.

Harry looks at us in silent horror for a few long seconds and then bursts out laughing. "Oh, my God! You guys totally had me! I was really thinking that my little brother was being drugged by his lover, and that you really had a sister! Oh my God, I really thought you drugged my drink!" she says reaching across the table, and downing the drink before I can stop her.

Sherlock clicks a timer on his phone

I feel more than a little relieved that this meal has only five minutes left in it, and I can't help but wonder if I have some brotherly duty to hold her hair while she throws up. Her hair is really short, so probably not?

The waiter arrives. "We'll be taking our order to go," Sherlocks says to the waiter's shocked and amused face.

I look at Harry who has just realized she is actually going to be sick soon.

"I realize this meal has not gone well, Harry, but you have to understand this love of danger has been around here longer than Sherlock. It was why I went to war. It's why I beat the shit out of those ass hole boys who used to tease you-I mean that and that I love you. My point is, it's a part of me. My love of danger is more a part of me than the fact that I sometimes love men. And by the way," I say giving Sherlock a nervous glance, "Most of the people I am attracted to are female. I'm like a one and a half on the Kinsley scale." Feels good to get that off my chest. I feel like both of them think I was hiding way more than I really was. I sigh, turning back to my sister, "If this thing between us is going to work you're going to have to accept my love of danger the way you've accepted my sexuality."

"Your boyfriend is going to have to stop poisoning me," Harry says.

"I agree," I say glaring at him.

"You're going to have to refer to your niece with her given name or at least preferred pronoun," Sherlock insists.

My mouth quirks at his odd way of putting it.

"Is there a cure for this drug you gave me?" Harry asks.

"Excessive among of vomiting should do it," Sherlock says.

"Wouldn't be the first time, huh Harry?" I smile.

"I think I'll leave before begins then," she says standing up, "We should do this again," she pauses looking at the baby, "Goodbye, Rose."

"Byebye," Rose says waving her hand at her aunt.

"I suppose we could finish our lunch if the vomit isn't going to be happening here," Sherlock says smiling at me, and waving the waiter down.

"No more experiments of any kind of my family, Sherlock," I demand.

A quarter smile, "Pity, I had some nice experiments planned for you later," he says making the face he's decided was sexy for some reason beyond my understanding. It should be a problem that I find my boyfriend's sexy face funny, but for some reason it, like the rest of this crazy relationship just works.

"Seriously, slipping a drug into someone's drink once is never going to cure alcoholism, and you really shouldn't be judging."

"I got rid of all of all the drugs," he says, "It's not a guarantee. God knows I've returned to drugs more times than I can count. Most of the time though, I've done it on purpose, and I've never got rid of everything I had, not for anyone."

"Glad to be your reason," I say.

"Oh, not you John, different Watson," he says shaking Rosie's sippy cup of milk in order to try to get her to take a sip.

I entangle my hand with his. The waiter returns, and there was a moment of surprise when he sees our hands. It's clear he didn't know we were together before. I don't hate the feeling. It's more than tolerable. I grin at the waiter. He smiles back.


	9. Shaving Cream and Saliva

He leans against the doorway, watching me shave. "I'll be out of the bathroom in a minute," I say.

"We can't share?" he says sounding insecure again.

"If you want to battle over a mirror with me, you're welcome," I say taking a small step to the left to allow him room in.

He takes the spot splashing water on his face. "My parents always took forever to 'wash up' as they called it. Standing side by side at the sink, talking, laughing," he smiles squirting facewash on his hands.

I use soap.

"Sherlock, maybe I could borrow some…product?" I ask.

He laughs, "That's was a joke, John. Gay people, or bisexuals don't have to look like any particular thing."

He rinses his face, and I take a few more swipes with the raiser. "Rosie has a doctor's appointment today. I'm wondering if I could bring her round this morning."

His mouth quirks into a smile, "To your work?" he says whipping some of the shaving cream off my face, and putting it on his own.

I chuckle at him spirting more lather onto my hand, and spreading it across his face,

"Thank you, if you're coming out at work we'd better make it super clear. I should smell just like you. Mark your territory."

"I don't work with a bunch of deducers. No one is going to notice how you smell."

"At least I can still enjoy the smell of you even though you insist on doing a boring job all boring day," he whispers, and then I pull him into a kiss. A very lathery kiss.

-0-

"Oh! John's baby is here!" I hear our receptionist exclaim from the front of the office.

I walk out to see that my daughter has already being held by one nurse, and three other women (including a patient I don't even know) are around her. My stomach does a backflip as I lean forward, and kiss Sherlock. Sherlock is clearly as surprised by the action as the others in the room.

Sherlock looks around the room making a variety of deductions, with growing anger. "Really? John waits the better chunk of his life in order to accept his bisexuality, and you are going to make _those_ faces?"

I grab onto his arm gently, "Sherlock, they worked with Mary."

"Oh," he says cheerfully, "Keep making those faces then, please. John and I have been struggling with the same thing."

"Over sharing," I scold.

The reception smiles a bit, but still looks serious, "Was this the reason you and Mary were apart for a while?"

"God no," I assure her, "This is two days old."

"Two weeks," Sherlock argues.

I shake my head.

One of the nurses chuckle, "I am eager to hear the two versions of how you too got together."

Oh Jesus. "He gave me tea," I offer.

"Two weeks," Sherlock gloats.

"Yep, two weeks," I agree.

"All right, little miss," I say taking my baby back from one of my fellow doctors who had nabbed her from the nurse, "time to get you checked out."

I'm halfway to the room when I realize that Sherlock is not with me. I turn back toward him. When he sees that I'm waiting for him he grins, and runs after us.

-0-

"Could I have a saliva sample?" I ask upon coming home that night.

"Are we being coy?" Sherlock asks pulling me into one of the searing kisses.

"I meant it a bit more literally," I say holding up a q-tip.

"Oh," he says surprised taking it and swabbing his mouth, before handing it back to me.

"I'm sorry," I say dipping it into the chemical.

"Did I do something to make you suspicious?"

"No," I shake my head, "But now that I've had a chance to see your bare arms more often, I think you used to use a lot more than I thought you did, so I don't really trust myself. When we got together the deal was that we would drug test you frequently. It's been a few days."

He nods.

"Clean," I announce looking at the test.

"I knew that," he smiles. "Should we take Rosie to the park then? She still refuses to walk anywhere but on grass."

I grin, and scoop my daughter up from the floor, tipping her upside down, and causing her to giggle in delight.

-0-

I wait a little while for Sherlock upstairs after putting Rosie down. Then I figure that it's earlier than last time. Or maybe, I smile, he has different plans than last time. Not chaste enough for my room.

I grab my night clothes, and I head back downstairs to see him, in pajamas and dressing gown reading in his chair. He looks up at me surprised.

"Are we going to be in your bed tonight?" I ask suddenly feeling ridiculous.

"The last time we shared a bed…" he says concerned.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry about that…"

"Don't be sorry. Mary was amazing. I don't want to push you. If you are feeling guilty…"

"I woke up, scared, panicked, it doesn't mean I don't want to be with you," I tell him closing half of the distance between us.

He stands, examining me carefully. "Okay, but back up in your room. I'm not really ready for unsupervised nights yet," he teases.

"Let me get changed, and have your second-best dressing gown waiting for me," I tease back.

"That's a thing now?" he asks.

"Obvious," I say with a quirk of the brow.

-0-

I almost missed it. The pornographic little gasping "oh" sound on his phone. But I didn't miss it. I just stare at him, and I don't know what my eyes are saying, but they wound him.

"John, read the text."

"I don't really want to Sherlock," I say closing my eyes. This is punishment. I cheated on Mary, so I deserve this.

"John, please read the text as a favor to me," he says pressing the phone into his hand.

"Can't I just forgive you and move on?" I ask looking at his face and avoiding the phone.

"While I appreciate the trust you've put in me, I don't want you to stay hurt."

My eyes glance at the phone. First the message he'd sent, three hours ago, "No more messages please. John and I are serious, I would never risk that."

The reply, a few seconds ago, "At long last! Kiss him for me."

Hard women not to like. Believe me, I've tried.

He grins at me, throwing the second-best-dressing gown around my shoulders. My hands slip into the pockets. The pockets full of gummies.

"Please tell me that you haven't been feeding my daughter copious amounts of gummies," I say drawing out a handful.

"Only when she uses her potty chair," he says in a way I know is lying.

"Or?" I prompt.

He grins, "Or when she shows signs of deduction."

"My daughter will not be a detective, Sherlock," I declare.

"Oh yes she will, a good one," Sherlock declares. The idea of how glorious it would be to raise Sherlock's baby occurs to me. I bat it away, because it is way too early for this, and besides, I'm really not sure the world could handle another Holmes.

"Let's just let Rosie decide what she wants to do with her life," I continue arguing.

"Yes, and until then I'll equip her with the skills she needs to be successful at the most important of all careers."

"Don't push her beyond what she's old enough for," I warn him.

"That is what the candy is for," he says pulling a gummy out of my pocket and popping it into his own mouth.

I lean forward for a kiss which I use to steal the candy from his mouth. He starts walking gently nudging me with a knee which occasionally goes somewhere interesting. When I feel the couch on the back of my legs I fall down on it. He's on top of me, pushing me into the couch. He's kissing me, moving on me and my interesting place is getting some interesting interaction.

He pulls away after what is in my opinion, not nearly enough time. He sits up at the foot of the couch by my feet, breathing deeply.

"You okay?" I ask concerned.

"Obvious, I got the candy," he says rolling the gummy to the front of his mouth.

A thought occurs to him staring at him, "Sherlock, you are not going to start using candy to train me."

"To late," he says.

-0-

My arms reach toward the other side of the bed before I am completely awake. It's empty. I glance around to see him in a chair in the corner. Staring at me. He brought the chair up from downstairs while I was sleeping.

"Care to join me?" I ask tapping the bed next to me.

He nods.

"You could have stayed in bed you know," I whisper as I fold into him.

"I set your curtains to wake me up before your usual time. Waking up next to you didn't end so well last time."

"I want to wake up next to you."

Rosie stirs in her crib, and he leaps out of bed to retrieve her for a bout of family snuggles.


	10. The Skull's Identity

The next morning he doesn't get out of bed until I'm up, and when he does he brings me tea. Which I smell suspiciously.

"I'm really not going to drug you anymore," he says sitting down next to me in bed. Then he chuckles, "And if I was, you wouldn't be able to smell it."

I smile against my will, and take a sip.

"Sherlock, you said you wanted to date me since the beginning, but during the first dinner…I thought it was a date. I asked you what your orientation was. You didn't answer me, you just said you were married to your work."

"That's my answer. That's my orientation. I actually thought I was asexual until a few years ago. Now I'd say demisexual."

"I don't even know what that word means," I confess with concern.

"I only form romantic attachments or sexual attraction to someone I already have a strong emotional bond with. You are the first person I ever formed a strong emotional bond with. You woke up that part of me."

"I woke up your sexuality? That's a lot of responsibility," I say breathlessly.

"It's not like that. It's not what it would be like if you never had feelings for anyone. I was married to the job, and I thought that was enough. I could go back to it, if I needed to. I mean breaking up with you would destroy me, obvious," he says with a touch of sadness, "but just because the only choices I see are dating you or dating no one doesn't mean, the thought of dating no one would make me sad. Also, I am a little worried that I still like the work too much."

I put an arm around him, pulling him toward me, "I'm not worried about that."

"I didn't know back then, that you would be a part of the work. No one has ever been a part of the work before," he says fidgeting.

I scoot over to put my leg against Sherlock's. The fidgeting stops at the contact.

"You've never dated before then?" I ask.

"Not often. I never really saw the appeal. Sex and romance don't affect me like they do for the rest of you. It's all over the TV like it's the most important thing in the world. For me sex drive is a distraction. To be dealt with like when you get too hungry or sleepy. It's a body need. The emotional connection, that's the part I hadn't understood when I was younger. That's what makes it interesting."

"You said not often, so you have dated?" I ask with interest. So, sue me. I'm firmly in the group of people desperate to find out if Sherlock is a virgin. At least I have more a right to the information than Moriarty or Irene.

"Just you, and Jamie," he mutters.

"Jamie?" John asks.

Sherlock takes a long sip of the tea. "It was about two years before I met you. He was less annoying than the rest. Smarter than average. He was a scientist."

"What happened?" John asks.

"We dated for three months. I kept thinking I would feel something. That kisses would start to be more than disgusting saliva and boring lips and tongue. I pretended. I tried so hard," Sherlock says.

I lean against him.

"We never had sex. I tried to want to," Sherlock mutters.

"You worried about that with us?" I ask, then worried about how asshole my worlds sound to a person who just told me he was demisexual, "Because it won't end us anyway. I could…"

Sherlock waves his hand, "We've done more than I did with Jamie. Besides, I WANT to do things I never wanted before. I've wanted things ever since I met you."

I can't keep the self-satisfied look of my face.

"Besides, it wasn't the lack of sex which ruined things between Jamie and I," Sherlock says.

"Oh, what was it then?" I ask.

"He was dying. Well, I guess the problem was I deduced he was dying. Tried to save him. He took offense," Sherlock says standing up and walking out of my bedroom room.

I freeze for a second in horror before following him down the stairs. "He died? What do you mean?"

Sherlock leaves the room without answering me, and I follow him. He is standing in the sitting room staring at the skull.

"Oh God no!" I exclaim.

"What?" he says turning and looking at me over his shoulder.

"Jesus! Sherlock! Tell me your ex-boyfriend's skull has not been on the bloody mantle the entire time I knew you!"

"It wasn't, Mrs. Hudson stole it for a while," he declares.

"That's Jamie? The skull of Jamie?" I ask getting between him and the skull.

"He donated his body to science."

"Jesus!" I exclaim again. "And I suppose you really think of yourself as science, then! Sometimes I wonder why Harry hates you. Then I realize that I live in a fucking house of horrors, and I should probably listen to her."

"First timed I used drugs was with him," Sherlock says softly.

"Is that what killed him?" I ask softening a bit.

Sherlock nods starring at the skull some more, "About six months after we broke up. He hadn't changed my name on the emergency contact. I don't know if he meant to leave it there, or just didn't think of it. I think better when high. He thought worse," he stares down at his feet for a second, "I sat by his bedside for fourteen hours during a slow and painful death."

I open my arms ever so slightly, and he takes the invitation. He snuggles into the hug, and smells my neck. Smells it like he smells dead bodies. Like I'm an experiment that needs to be cataloged. I shouldn't be okay with that, but it is maybe the highest honor he could give.

I am part of the work.

-0-

Sherlock has started eating a bit more. Mostly because Rosie notices everything he does, and she's unlikely to eat unless she sees him doing it. It's a win-win situation for me, to get nutrition into my two-favorite people.

Sherlock puts a forkful of eggs in his mouth, and Rosie imitates with a fistful into hers.

Another memory, of our first days together strikes me, "Sherlock, when I started dating Sara, you said that you thought you and I were dating," I begin.

He nods.

"I didn't know you were serious."

"Well, to be fair, I actually didn't understand how romance and friendship differed at the time. So, it's okay that you thought I was a machine. Incapable of love, human emotion."

"I'm sorry," I say, "I know better now."

"Ma'ine!" Rose declares pounding her spoon, and grinning at Sherlock.

"You couldn't have picked up the word love from that, baby girl?" he asks bending before her. "There was a better one in there. Try it on for size. Love, love, love, love, love."

"Lobe!" she declares.

"I love you too," he says kissing her on the forehead.

I chuckle at the exchange.

"Love you to," he says kissing my forehead. Then he begins dancing around the kitchen, "Oh! I am a love machine! And I don't work for no body but you!" He extends his hand to me inviting me to dance.

"You're mad, you know that don't you?" I ask.

"Come dance with the madman," he invites.

I chuckle standing up. Submitting myself to his mad man's dance moves as he spins me into the sitting room.

"You've got to lead John," he whispers.

"You're the one who knows what you're doing!" I protest.

"I know, but you've got to lead," he says looking scared. I've always lead before, but he was preparing me for my wedding. He was preparing me to lead Mary across the dance floor. It had never occurred to me that the leading mean something different to him. More to him. I'm also a little relieved that this might for our roles in future sexual acts.

"Do my best," I promise him trying to remember what he taught me. Trying to be the partner that he deserved. We are both wearing dressing gowns, and on some of the turns we move so quick they swat each other in the air. He's smiling. Really smiling. As big as the fake flirty smile he'll use to get information at a crime scene, only deeper.

And still singing that horrible song. While my baby claps her hands in the highchair.

And the skull of his ex-watches us from the mantlepiece. So, it's not exactly perfect. Sherlock follows my eyes, "He reminds me not to use," Sherlock says.

"He's bloody awful at it," I comment.

"I have Rosie now. If Jamie bothers you…" he returns.

"I'll adjust," I say resting my head on his shoulder as the dance turns into more of a hug. Sherlock is the perfect height to hear his heart beating.

-0-

"Your boyfriend is here," buzzes over the intercom.

Oh God. What's wrong now? I rush out picturing him in emergency rushing mode. He's calm with Rosie on one hip, and a basket dangling from the other hand.

"It is time for your lunch right?" he asks looking confused by my rush.

"I thought something was wrong."

"This is what people do, right?" he says insecurely.

"It's amazing. Thank you," I say giving a nod to the swooning ladies of my office as we walk out the door behind the whoosh of his coat.

I take Rosie from him, and settle her on my hip. Now he's got a hand free to hold mine. He grins at me, and Rosie rests her hand on my shoulder. My heart bubbles up. "You know I love you, right?" He did say it first, and I didn't return it. Mostly because he distracted me with the dancing.

He stops in the sidewalk causing people behind us to nearly collide with us, swear, and then go around. "I didn't actually," he says grinning.

"Now, you do," I say glancing at his face.


	11. Gravestone Meeting

Sherlock Holmes needs to learn how to differentiate emergency from non-emergency. So, I'm just annoyed the first time he texts me a location. I know those street coordinates lead to the cemetery where Mary's grave is. I don't want to go right now. Maybe not with him at all.

Then the second one, "Now!"

"Are you in danger?" I text back, because I know that 'now' can mean almost anything to him.

"Need you," he says, and the words are so pathetic that I remember that he is grieving for her too. That she died to save him, and that he is far from getting over it. My mental projection of Mary might have left me after I confessed my infidelity to her, but she asked him to put on a cap after that. My wife is probably still haunting him.

"Coming," I text with a sigh.

-0-

He's not there alone. Even from a distance I can tell that they are an older couple. I feel like he's committed blasphemy brining them to her grave. When I arrive the women turns to me, with tears running down her face, "This is him?" she asks Sherlock.

At his nod she flings her arms around me holding me in a hug which lasts far too long. It would have even if she wasn't a complete stranger.

"What is happening?" I ask Sherlock from around the back of her head.

"These are Mary's parents," Sherlock explains.

This causes the woman to pull away from me at last, "Her name was Rose," she says shaking her head.

I stare at her in shock, but still taking in some physical characteristics which lend themselves to confirming her story. "How did you find them?" I ask. The man is holding Rosie, I only now see. I want to take my daughter back from him, but I can see it would not be an easy transition to make.

Sherlock walks closer to me, and makes some attempt at offering me physical comfort, but I manage to dissuade him from that with a look. If he hasn't already told them we're a couple it can wait until a little more shock has worn off, "I didn't look for them," he says, "I believed her when she said she was an orphan. They were clients an hour ago."

The woman waves a packet of postcards. "She sent them to us, every year. They didn't give much detail, but they did tell us about you, and her baby," her eyes grow moist at the words, and her husband hands the baby over to stop the cascade of tears which threaten to run down her face.

"She told us a few years back that if the postcards ever stopped we were supposed to contact the great detective Sherlock Holmes. I wish we'd have known that he actually knew her! We could have known her all this time!" she continues.

"She'd didn't want us to know, Catherine," the husband chides.

"Your name is Catherine?" I asks looking at the woman in surprise. "We almost named Rosie after you."

"You did?" the woman says engulfing me in another hug. I manage to extract myself from this one though with my daughter in my arms. Rosie looks a little relieved at this, having been overwhelmed with her grandmother's smothering.

"I didn't know why she picked it," I admit.

"We just want to know about why she left. Why she broke off contact," Mary's father says.

I glance at Sherlock quickly. "She had her reasons," he says. They don't know their daughter was an assassin then? How will I keep this from them? How would I ever tell them?

"I'd rather know about her life, her life with you," Catherine says grabbing onto my hand.

"Maybe we should go somewhere, else," I say glancing at the tombstone nervously. I want to keep this place as something between Mary and me.

"Baker street?" Sherlock suggests.

"Maybe a restaurant?" I say nervously. They were clients, so they saw our living situation? Ye gods what did they think of it? Sherlock had kept his promise about not having body parts around his daughter right? They hadn't used the restroom with the visible drug testing strips had they?

"I'd like that," Catherine says intensely.

"I'm sorry, what was your name?" I ask her father.

"Walter," he says with a smile.

-0-

Rosie refuses to sit down in the high chair at the restaurant. I hope they are not going to think that I'm a bad parent for letting her eat on my knee, but she's a little unsettled by the new development in her life. Or more likely she is just sensing how unsettled I am.

"How long did you know her for?" Walter asks.

"I met her at work three years ago, we started dating a bit after. We were married six months later, and.." I can't quite finish the though.

"She died fourteen months later," Sherlock supplies.

Fourteen months. I'd never done the math on that before. I wish I still hadn't. Another math problem finishes itself in my brain. Fourteen minus the three months we were separated equals only eleven months. Less than a year. About one fifth of our marriage we were apart. Molly is right, I can't afford anymore bloody tantrums.

Rosie reaches for my glass, and I am momentarily distracted holding her hands in such a way that she can take a sip without pouring the whole of the water glass on herself.

"Do you know where she was before?" Catherine asks.

"Some," I reply vaguely.

"There are just so many missing years, and I would love so much to be able to fill some of them in," Catherine asks pleadingly.

"I'm sorry, but I am going to have to assume there was a good reason that Mary didn't want you to know. I really want to respect her wishes," I begin.

"John, she was wrong before," Sherlock says. At my look of confusion he continues, "Mary thought that you wouldn't love her anymore if you know, but it didn't work like that way. She could be just as wrong about her parents."

"Fair enough," I say with a sigh, "But I don't want to talk about it around Rosie."

"You don't want Rosie to know?" Sherlock says in shock and with a note of disappointment in his voice.

"Someday, but not now," I say looking down at her, "I don't want her to overhear the words when she's still too small to understand them. It's…"

"Too important for that," Sherlock agrees.

"I will say that loving your daughter was the best thing that's ever happened to me. Actually, I told her that when I was proposing. She agreed," I chuckle.

"That sounds like Mary," Catherine says.

"Yet, you're…" Walter glances at Sherlock nervously, "You're living with a man?"

"Um… yes. We were actually roommates before we started dating. We're new enough that we probably wouldn't be living together yet if we weren't when we started. It's only been a few months ." I say avoiding Sherlock's eyes. I really hope he doesn't feel like I'm dismissing him.

A light touch on my knee assures me he's fine.

"Yes, but how long ago did Mary die?" her father asks softly.

I feel the panic coming on just like it did when I realized the body next to me in bed wasn't Mary.

Sherlocks reaches his arm around me to rub my back, which helps a lot more than I thought it would have. "It's been nine months, and John is still very much grieving. Don't shame him into having another panic attack please."

"I'm sorry," Water says seriously.

"No, I'm fine. It feels fast to me to," I say shooting Sherlock a grateful smile, because I really don't know how I could have explained it without him, "I knew Sherlock long before I met Mary. The two of them were good friends, probably better friends than I was with Sherlock."

Sherlock nods seriously, "We definitely spent more time together."

"She would have been okay with Sherlock and I. In fact, she said as much."

Sherlocks looks at me in surprise, "I did not realize you took that meaning away from the video. You have got to start making facial expressions."

"I thought you can deduce anything," I tease.

"Well, if you were as simple a puzzle to solve as the rest of the goldfish I wouldn't have had to stick around you this long would I have?" he teases back.

"There is a video? You mean…she left it, after she died?" Walter asks.

"Several actually. Two for me. A dozen for Rosie, for different times in her life. I've watched them all already."

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to share them?" Walter asks.

I nod, and clear my throat, "We could go after?" I can already tell that I'm not going to be keeping secrets from these people for long. They can see our apartment.

They both nod.

"So, tell me about Mar…" I stop myself just in time, "Rose's childhood."

"Lord, I thought that child was going to be the death of me. She jumped off the roof when she was six," Catherine says.

"She did not, Catherine," Walter argues.

"It was a short roof, and there was a trampoline involved, but she absolutely did," Catherine insists.

"Do not get any ideas," I mutter to the daughter on my lap.

"Poor thing, she comes by the love of danger honestly doesn't she? On both sides," Sherlock teases.

"Oh, are you a daredevil too?" Catherine asks me.

"A bit, sadly," I say hoping that Sherlock isn't going to let them know how dangerous what we do daily is. The secrets should come out slowly at least. "I was a soldier."

"Really?" Catherine coos impressed.

"Show her your scar," Sherlock demands.

"I'm not taking off my shirt in a restaurant Sherlock, did you read the manors book I gave you?"

"More than once, no where does it talk about where you cannot be shirtless," he argues.

Perhaps they don't make etiquette books that start way down at his level.

"Besides, once you've been dressed in a sheet at Buckingham Palace there is really no where to go from there but up," he mutters.

"You were naked in Buckingham Palace?" Walter says trying not to laugh.

"He was having a fight with his brother," I explain. I don't want him to think it involved…sex in the palace.


	12. Pearls and Hats

Mrs. Hudson clearly spent all the time since Sherlock, Rosie, and her grandparents left the flat cleaning. Our place has never been this perfect, but I'm sure Mrs. Hudson has been aching to get to it for a long time.

"Would you mind taking Rosie for just a little bit?" I ask her.

"Never, my dear," she says.

"Hudders!" Rosie exclaims, "Tea!"

"It's not real tea," she explains in response to my worried face. "It's milk in tea cups."

With the toddler gone the room becomes somber.

"This video is made for the first time she asks about her mother," I explain awkwardly putting it in.

Mary's face fills the screen, and I gasp a bit.

Sherlock grabs onto my hand gently. He whispers, "You don't have to watch this."

"I'm fine," I say clearing my throat. I grab his hand, and put it around myself. He squeezes around his arms.

Mary's voice, "Hello, Rosie my dear. I hope that I get to be there to see you grow up, but if you are watching this, I didn't get to. Rosie, if your father gives this to you when he's suppose to you are going to be way too young to understand why I died. Or death. Just know that I loved you more than anything, and I would have done anything to be with you."

The screen goes blank for a second as she comes back after clearly having a cry. "I had so much to say to you when you are older, but I don't know what to say to you this young. So, I'm going to read to you." She holds up a children's book, and begins reading.

When the video finishes Catherine's eyes are moist, and her husband is holding her like Sherlock is holding me.

"How did Rose die?" Walter asks softly.

"She died saving my life," Sherlock says.

Catherine grips his hand frantically, and Walter gasps.

"I think we should start at the beginning," I say, "Mary had a very dangerous job before I met her. She was…" I strain myself for a euphemism which might be delicate enough.

I forgot that the destroyer of euphemism was next to me, "She was an international assassin," Sherlock says.

They don't look surprised. "We knew she was in a bit of trouble," Walter explains.

"There was a mission that went bad," I continue.

"She mentioned it in the post card," Catherine says, "I am glad that it forced her to have a more normal life, even though it wasn't her choice."

"So am I," I admit. "So was she."

"Was she…settled when she as with you? She was never settled before she let home," Catherine says.

"I kept her in a bit of danger," Sherlock says.

"Plus, I don't think the thing with Magnus was the first time she did something like that without either of us," I add.

"So, she was just as unsettled, but you were part of the danger. I wish we would have tried that, but…" Walter begins.

"We never could have done the danger, my dear, it's just as well we didn't try," Catherine corrects.

I wonder if Sherlock and I will ever finish each other's sentences. I imagine he'd think he'd know what I'd say, but I also imagine that he'd be wrong. It would probably be better if I didn't get inside of his head.

"I didn't know anything about her past when we got married," I offer.

"No, I didn't either! Which is much more amazing. Neither of us had a clue until she shot me," Sherlock says cheerfully.

"She shot you?" Walter says in horror.

"Oh, it was not like that. She had to do it. I mean, she either had to shot Sherlock or risk me getting pinned for the murder that she as planning. Anyway, she didn't mean to kill him."

They look somewhat unconvinced, no doubt believing that there was animosity between the two most important people in my life.

Sherlock of course has to make it worse, "I was John's best man at the wedding. The fact that the man I was in love with was getting married didn't really hit me until after it happened."

"You left early," I remember, "And then disappeared for a month."

"Mary called me that night."

"Jesus, that's why she was in the bathroom forever on our wedding night? She was talking to you?" I exclaim.

He nods, "Texting. She was so worried about my feelings. She…knew how I felt. Maybe better than I did, because that was two years ago, and back then I didn't think there was anyway that I could ever be together."

"Believed me when I said I wasn't gay, did you?" I ask.

"Never, but I did believe you when you said I wasn't a couple. Besides…" he breaths, "You, John, were never the problem in our relationship."

"That's true," I say feeling my eyebrows raise.

Sherlock turns back to her parents, "Mary knew that I was heartbroken. And she tried to talk me out of doing drugs to deal with it."

I flinch.

Catherine smiles at me, "Sherlock was already honest about the drugs, and the fact that you drug test him in order to protect little Rosie."

"I'm sorry, none of this is an ideal way to raise a child," I say apologetically.

"Ideal? Oh, there is no such thing as an ideal way to raise children!" Catherine exclaims, "But we did want to talk to you a little bit about the way this one is being raised."

This is it. What was coming. "I know you don't approve of the former drug addict I live with or the murders that you solve, but I swear to you that your granddaughter is never in any danger. I know you think that she would be better off with you, and maybe you are even right. But she's my daughter, and I love her, and…"

Catherine interrupts, "We never had any intention of taking Rosie for you my dear! I don't even know how you got that impression! We were asking to be part of your holidays. Maybe come up and see her one weekend a month."

"That would be amazing," I admit.

"I'd also love to do babysitting whenever you needed it. I understand how convenient it is to have child care right downstairs, and we'd never want to take away from her, but…"

"No, I want you in my daughter's life," I say, "Another video?"

"I think," Walter says, "If we're going to be in your lives for a long time we might just save those for another day. I think we've been in you boys' hair for too long all ready."

He stands up.

"You're not in our hair," I protest.

"You have a weekend for us?" Catherine asks.

"Next weekend?" I ask.

"We'll be up," Walter says giving both of us a hug. "Now, I've got to say goodbye to that grandbaby of mine," he says grinning.

Rosie is wearing Mrs. Hudson's largest hat and string of pearls. Her little pinky is raised.

"Can I have a picture?" Catherine asks.

"Yes, I suppose it is rather cute," I say wishing her father had been the one to think of the picture.

"Well yes, but…I don't have any pictures," she says.

"Well, we're going to have to fix that. I'll get you some more the next time we see each other."

She snaps a picture, and kneels before the little girl wrapping her arms around her for a hug. She stands, hugging her husband with the little girl suspended between them. If I'm not mistaken Mrs. Hudson shed a tear.


	13. Voice Activated

It's the moan which wakes me up first. The next thing I notice is that it wasn't my moan, but I am responsible for it I realize when I notice the motion of my hips, humping Sherlock's ass.

I sit up quickly.

"It's okay, John," he says softly in the darkness.

"No, I wasn't awake. I didn't ask you," I sputter.

"You could ask me to finish now. I'd say yes," he says looking over at me with what he thinks is a sexy face. It has gotten slightly less disturbing.

"Can I do something so we can both…finish?" I ask raising my eyebrows.

"…Yes," he says but he looks uncertain, terrified, and a little green.

"Sherlock, please don't ever say yes to a sex act that you're not a hundred percent comfortable with."

"I want to make you happy," he pleads a bit.

"I can't be happy while you are doing something you don't like. I'm going to ask a question, and if it's offensive, you are just going to have to tell me. Is there something about sex which makes it not fun? Something you hate about it?"

"Ejaculation is gross," he mutters.

"We could use condoms. That would help with the mess."

He nods, but still looks worried, "I don't like the face I make. The way my muscles move when it happens."

"What if you were turned away from me? Does it help?"

He fidgets a little, "Talking about this…my stomach feels weird," he says.

"Are we talking nauseous or turned on?" I say confused.

"Definitely not nauseous," he says, and I find an answering sensation in my own stomach. I lean forward to kiss him, slowly lowering him down on the bed as my tongue possess his mouth. His hand attempts to fumble its way into the bedside table.

I pull back allowing him to sit up, but the hand is still fumbling, and shaking as he reaches into the drawer.

I reach over and grab it for him, checking the date on the condom packet, before ripping it open.

"You have a brand you prefer?" he asks confused.

"I was just checking how long they'd been sitting in your drawer," I explain.

"Weren't you listening the other day? I didn't need them before I met you," he says exasperated.

"My thoughts were they might not have gotten a lot of use."

He's reaches down to touch himself, too long without contact. The idea of him being turned on by me, when he's never been turned on by anyone is very arousing to me. I reach over in an attempt to touch him. He waves my hand away.

"I just want to…I'm going to put it on in the bathroom," he says looking apologetic again.

"That's fine," I assure him.

"It's all fine," he mutters my words to himself like a mantra he's repeated to himself frequently over the years.

He comes back fully dressed-dressing gown and all, his pajama pants still tented, and carrying two towels. He lays one out, carefully, on his side of the bed, and then hands the other to me before laying down. I shift trying to get the towel under me.

"No, on my back," he whispers.

I drape it over his back, and run a hand through his hair, he's nervous, and I want to relax him before we begin. I snuggle against him, feeling each and every one of his tight muscles.

"You're amazing," I whisper to him. Jesus, he whimpers, his muscles loosen, he thrusts his ass into my crotch. "Your fantastic." He grinds himself against me, and I am preparing to let him set his own rhythm, but then he pleads, "Please, John."

"What do you want?" I ask because I'm not a hundred percent sure, and I want him to be in control.

"Hump me," he pleads.

I obey.

I reach a hand forward, touching his hip, offering my hand to help him. He doesn't seam to understand. I reach a bit further in, touching just the base of him, hoping for further direction.

"It will be short enough as it is, John," he pants. Jesus, close already.

I lean forward whispering in his ear, "fantastic, terrific, wonderful, fucking bloody miracle, incredible."

He comes with a noisy grunt.

I hold him for a few seconds before pulling away.

"Where are you going," he says somewhat pitiably. God, here I am trying to slip away when that was the closest he'd had to sex.

"I was going to go finish myself," I explain.

"Here," he pleads.

I decide not to remind him about how he said he was grossed out by ejaculation a few minutes ago. I just put my hand inside my pants, and work myself over.

Suddenly there is another hand in there with mine. I look into his eyes. "What words do I say to make you come?" he whispers rolling me over a bit to get a better grip.

I can't answer. Not just because I've lost the ability to think, but also because I don't think I have magic words.

"Obvious," he mutters putting his mouth near my ear, "I love you."

That fucking does it.

He retrieves a baby wipe from the nightstand (I can't help but wonder if he took that pack from Rosie's nappy bag in anticipation of tonight), pulls my pants down a bit, removes the condom carefully and throws it away with a look of disgust and then begins wiping.

"Not exactly the way I imagined you seeing it for the first time."

He tilts his head at it, "It's beautiful John." I enjoy his OCD cleaning of me more than I should have. It's beautiful. An act of love.

When he's finally done I reach over to try to return the cleaning favor

He jerks away. "Not yet." He stands up to return to the bathroom again. I throw the perfectly clean towels into the hamper, and then lie back in the bed to wait.

By the time he returns I can see his brain has kicked itself into high gear. He curls himself into a tight ball, and inserts himself into my chest. I curl around him as best I can. "What are you thinking?" I ask gently.

"My ejaculation was different this time," he says.

"Worse or better?" I ask.

"Before, it's always been just a physical release. Tension dispersal. A medical need like…"

"Yeah, probably don't go into the comparisons," I interrupt.

"Not sexy talk?" he asks.

"Definitely not," I respond finding his hand somewhere between us, and clasping it in my own.

"I don't know what happened this time, but it was…intense."

"Orgasm, I'd imagine," I say.

"People's obsession with sex makes more sense now," he says with a chuckle.

"You liked it?"

"There has to be a bigger word than that," he responds.

My other hand finds his way into his curly locks. They are softer since the last time that I touched them. He switched whatever he puts into his hair for me, just at the mention of the crinkle.

"I'm glad I liked that," he observes, "Your sex drive is about three times what mine is. Hopefully this will even us out."

"Sherlock, you should avoid making deductions about and especially advertising people's sex drive."

"Yes, Lestrad has said a similar thing to me several times," he mutters. He is about to continue when I hold up a hand.

"I do not want to know what Greg's sex drive is Sherlock."

"John, if I'm ever not enough for you, you have to tell me. We can discuss something more open, but please don't just…"

"I'm not going to cheat on you, Sherlock."

"Just promise me," he pleads squeezing my hand.

"You are enough," I say kissing his forehead. "Always."

I am sure that he is falling asleep when suddenly I hear a soft, "Thank you, John."

I run my hand through his curls fiercely, "Of course, Sherlock."

"Most people wouldn't have gone with all my strange requests, or being patient with the pace," he mutters.

"Sherlock, anyone with an ounce of humanity would have. You deserve to be treated kindly. I mean, actually you deserve your own national holiday, but…"

He chuckles, "Don't make me hard, again." He shifts uncomfortably showing that I'm already succeeding. I'm not sure how he even has room for growth folded up like that.

"You are arrogant," I tell him. The shifting stops. "You lack compassion for strangers."

"I should really be alarmed that you have voice control over my dick," he mutters.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock," I say rubbing his back until his muscles go limp once more.


	14. Black Tie or Clown Costume Required

Holy crap. Sherlock is prancing. He is frocking around a crime scene waving his arms around dramatically, and continuing flaring his coat behind him. He has never had a gayer aspect before.

Lestrad is having trouble holding a giggle in. He maneuvers over so he can talk to me without Sherlock hearing. He didn't have worried. Sherlock can't hear anything when he is high on crime scene. Plus, the dancing.

Jesus, he just literally did a spin on one leg.

"Sherlock is particularly gay today," Lestrad observes.

"Did you seriously ask me Sherlocks sexual orientation?" I ask annoyed.

Lestrad laughs, "Sherlock's orientation has never really been a question since the first time he solved a case for me, and I bought him a pint in a pub. That is apparently is enough to get him drunk, and he waxed poetic on why vaginas were disgusting for over an hour, loudly. Still haven't been back in that pub, and it was one of my favorites. My comment today was a bit more about the traditional meaning of the world. He's really happy. What got into him?"

I stare at Sherlock dancing, and try hard to keep a smile off my face.

Lestrad seems to be debating whether or not to push it, "Were you what got into him John?"

I blush hard at the intimacy and inuendo of the question, "I resent society's implication that sex is the only thing that can make people happy or whole. Some people never have sex, and they are extremely happy about it."

Sherlock prances over to me, and kisses me, "Good speech. However, empirically my mood is significantly elevated after last night's orgasm," He pauses, "Of course, it also is when we talk, and especially when you say those words." Then, in the same breath, because he's Sherlock, he starts rattling of facts and theories about the crime while I stare at him blushing.

Then Sherlock looks at me curiously, "You're not dancing this morning. Don't I make you want to dance?"

"I dance on the inside," I tell him.

With that he grins, grabs my hands, and begins twisting around the room with me.

"Not a crime scene, Sherlock!" I protest.

Lestrad giggles, "Congratulations, you two."

And it feels something like coming out, but it's abbreviated to the point of falsehood. Neither of us is gay, not really. I'm bi, and he's demi, and we aren't really having sex, at least not yet.

Jesus, if he dances like this for light petting what will he do when we really have sex?

He's danced us out of the crime scene into the street. He twirls me again, lifting me up into the air off my feet.

"Put me down you nutter," I demand.

He tilts his head at me, "Tonight, I am going to have to make you as happy as you made me."

"Seriously, Sherlock, you already have," I say earnestly. Then I lean toward his ear, "You're fantastic."

He links his arms with me, and begins to skip. I kid you not skip.

-0-

Ninety-seven times Sherlock has paced, "Sherlock! What is wrong?"

He kneels down before me, "I want to have a coming out party."

"Okay."

"I told my brother I was asexual when I was a teenager, but I'd like to update him. I want Mrs. Hudson, Lestrad, Molly, my parents, and…"he looks at me uncertainly, "Your sister too? I know you don't exactly want to spend time with her."

"No, she should be here. Sherlock, you're not planning into going into a lot of detail about our…amours activities?"

"I want to tell them how I feel about sex. How…slow we're moving."

"That's fine, just not mention of specific sex acts," I stay sternly. Because with Sherlock you damned well better be specific.

"I want to make it big. With cake and balloons and invitations with fancy letters," Sherlock continues looking at me critically.

"I'll be in charge of the cake. I imagine you want it to say demi somewhere on it."

"And bi, we can share a party can't we?" he asks.

"Of course, Sherlock," I say smiling at him.

I expected him to snuggle down with me, but instead he gets up and starts twirling and dancing again.

"You are better than a drug, John Watson!" he announces.

Rosie holds up her arms to him in a way that shows that dancing with Sherlock is a frequent occurrence in her life. I love this idea. Sherlock happy and dancing with my daughter while I'm at work. He swings her up, and begins swaying, and dipping her until her little hands reach the floor, and then tossing her up where to my surprise she pulls her body into a banana like pose that looks like an actual ballroom dancer when he catches her.

"She has to be part of it," I observe.

His eyes sparkle at the thought, "Yes! The three of us, are going to have a choreographed dance to a song I'll write for the occasion."

I could try to stop him, but we all know that wouldn't work.

-0-

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

And

John Hamish Watson

Request your presence at

221 B Baker Street

The 12th of May

at 1700

Black tie or clown costume required

-0-

"It looks like a fucking wedding invitation, Sherlock," I complain as he addresses the envelopes with a fountain pen.

"They won't think it's that will they?" he asks concerned.

"They really might."

"Not a wedding," he scrawls across the side of the card that happens to be in his hand.

"Jesus," I mutter. "The clown costume?"

"Mycroft is afraid," Sherlock grins.

"No one is going to wear a clown costume."

"We haven't decided on costumes for the performance yet."

"Not clowns."

"Sherlock you can't jump out of the cake, Sherlock you can't wear a clown costume. We're going to have the most boring coming out party ever!" he exclaims storming out of the room, and slamming his door.

"Sherlock! Can we find a case! Or fold some swans?" I ask trying to follow him.

I hear a clunk, and turn to see Rosie with her hands in spilled ink. She plops them down on the invitation, "Better," she declares.

"Yes, baby girl, much better," I say coming over to help her. Well I also letting her add a handprint over each of the invitations. Because it really will be better if no one can read exactly what they say.

I'll send an e-mail out. Or they can just go by the save the date cards he sent them last week.

-0-

The sharing the mirror thing? It's become the most intimate part of our day. Well that, or the way we cling to each other in bed. His bed if we feel like touching each other into orgasm, and in my bed if we'd rather listen to Rosie breathe, and perhaps wake up with cuddles with Rosie in the morning.

It's amazing how often I find myself picking my bedroom, dating a demisexual has had a good effect on me.

As I watch my boyfriend carefully place a curl on his forehead something sparks within me, "Sherlock will you do my hair today?"

His eyes meeting my eyes in the mirror for a long second, "I think your hair is perfect."

"I want my boyfriend," shit I've never used that word out loud, have I? Is it okay? "to do my hair," I say pressing on.

He smiles, and my stomach flips, like I'm in junior high. This going slow stuff, it makes everything deeper.

He moves to stand behind me. His fingers rake through my hair, and a groan comes out of me. He leans forward and kisses my neck. He really is just planning on using his fingers, not a brush.

"No one is going to be able to tell under your clown wing," he teases.

"This is all you are getting, so make it as clown like as you want."

"Challenge accepted," he says pressing me against the sink in order to reach a curling iron in the medicine cabinet. My heart starts to beat more quickly that I can barely stand it. He enjoys his effect on me, and stays there a moment longer than necessary before plugging it in.

Rosie loses interest in her blocks in the doorway, and suddenly the best idea occurs to me. "Rosie, Daddy is going to brush your hair now," I say. I sit on the floor spreading my leg into a v. I tap the floor in front of me, and she runs over, almost tripping on my legs in order to sit down. Sherlock passes me a brush, and I start working it gently through her hair, with my fingers pressed against her scalp in order to prevent her from feeling the pull.

His curling iron apparently gets hot super quick. He kneels down, and begins to curl my hair. I'm pretty sure it's going to look awful, because it is way too short for this. I don't care.

"You going to make me smell like you?" I ask him.

He lays the curling iron down, and puts his aftershave on my cheeks. Then slowly going back to curling my hair. I can feel the heat near my head. Not burning, but close. I like it though. It's a metaphor for my life, being close to the sun-my Sherlock-rotating around him like I have ever since I met him.

"I love you," I tell him gently.

"I love you too," he says, "And you too little girl."

"Yeah!" she says turning around to look at us. "Lobe!"

His fingers fluff my hair. The last stroke on my daughter's hair. Sherlock unplugs the curling iron, and scoops my daughter up.

"Time to get you dressed in the petticoat with the bells."

"That's a joke, right?" I say alarmed.

"No."

I chuckle watching them as they go upstairs. My heart is so full and happy. My sister's text alert, the sound of a tongue making a farting sound, rings.

"I don't understand. Is the ceremony at your flat?"

"What are you talking about? There is no ceremony."

"I couldn't read most of the invite. Cute handprint," she is better at lying in a text, "Is this an engagement party?"

"No, it's," hell, Harry knows part of what we're saying today, "It's a coming out party."

"For which one of you?" she asks after a pause.

"Both of us…and you know more than most of the guests, but not all." I lean against the sink, "Be kind to him."

Because things are so good right now, and everyone is going to think we're getting married. And he's going to think he's not enough for me. And I hope to God it doesn't destroy him.


	15. Body and Bells

"They are all here, it's time to get started," Sherlock declares.

"Are we sure this dance is safe even with the bells?" I ask.

He looks at me like I'm crazy, "There were experiments."

Sherlock is wearing one of my jumpers, and put a silk scarf around my neck as well as having done my short hair as much like his as he could manage.

I'm not going to talk about the dance. I've blocked it out. I know there is a video of it on Lestrad's phone. But the other humiliating videos of Sherlock have never leaked, so this one should be fine as well.

I will say a bell did smack me in the head, but Sherlock assures me it was because I missed a step.

I settle my daughter down in front of a cartoon with headphones in, and then I sit on the arm of the chair Sherlock has already perched himself into, curled up with his knees under his chin. "You start," he mutters.

"Yes, well," I say looking out at the crowd before me which suddenly seems very big, "I'm bisexual. I find myself more often attracted to women than men, however I have had one other significant relationship with a man."

"What?" Sherlock says looking up at me in shock.

"I'm sorry, I thought you knew, James Sholto," I mutter.

"Yes, of course," he says glancing away.

"Sherlock and I have been dating for..well…almost a month now, and does that bring us to your part?" I ask.

He nods. His eyes end up focusing on his parents, and words are really not getting out.

"Would you like me to start for you?" I ask after a silence longer than the one when I asked him to be my best man.

"No," he says through not continuing.

Mycroft rises from his seat, and goes to kneel before his brother. "Just tell me Sherlock. Forget about them. You've told me before, at least…"

"I told you what I thought then, Mycroft," he says.

"Yes, start with that, brother mine," he says calming.

"For most of my life I thought I was asexual, but now I believe the more appropriate term is demisexual," Sherlock begins staring at his brother.

Mycroft nods. "Tell them what it means," he prompts. I'm not surprised that Mycroft knows the term when I didn't. I've researched asexuality since Sherlock came out to me, and if Mycroft did the same thing he would have known the term before his brother discovered that it applied to him.

"It means that most of the time I don't have romantic or sexual feelings for people. It only happens if I form a deep emotional beyond with someone, over the course of years. It's only happened with John in fact."

Mycroft smiles, and stands, "Good job brother mine." He places a kiss upon Sherlock's rumbled curls before returning to his seat.

"Bet you are glad I talked you out of the clown suits now?" I whisper.

Sherlock's mother stands, and gives him a hug. "All this time Sherlock. I thought you were gay and didn't want to tell us. But I never even guessed this." She hugs him longer, before pulling away to look at him, "I'm still a bit confused. Is it a wedding?"

"No. I never thought I would ever feel romantic toward another human being. This is new for me. We're moving at the stage of a glacier. Don't expect a wedding anytime soon. And I am gay. Too. But that's a small thing compared to being demisexual. Gay people can understand. Feeling no attraction for more than thirty years? That makes people call you a freak."

He's standing while I sit on the arm of the chair, and reach up to give his hand a squeeze at that.

"I just want you to be happy, Sherlock," she moans.

"I was happy. I didn't want romance, and I didn't have it. That was happiness," Sherlock says. His mother nods, but clearly does not totally understand. She returns to his seat.

Sherlock's father stands up then, pulls his son into a tight hug, tapping the back of his head, and mutters "I love you," to him. Then he pulls me up into a hug as well. I'm more than a little taken aback from it.

When he sits down. Lestrad raises his hand like he's in school. Sherlock nods toward him. "So, you don't just think vaginas are gross?"

"Oh no, penises are gross too. Except for John's," he grins at me like he just awarded me a metal.

"But…Jamie?"

"Asexuals have relationships sometimes. I thought I might stop being grossed out and bored by the idea of kissing or touching if I dated him long enough. I was still gross," Sherlock declares.

"But you like being with John?" Molly asks clearly fascinated and in full science mode. That's good, science mode, might help.

"John has lots of creative ways to make touching less gross, and it is interesting, because it is him," Sherlock declares.

"Don't say it like that," I groan. "It doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It is though. You make me comfortable," he says grinning at me, "That said I was serious about moving very slowly. John forbid me from talking about specifics, but…" Sherlock drifts off.

"And my horndog brother is okay with this?" Harry asks causing Mummy Holmes to gasp in horror and Molly to giggle.

"I really am," I assure her. Maybe this was a bad idea. She doesn't need another reason to hate my boyfriend.

"His sex drive has decreased a bit since we got together. However, mine has increased far more. He makes up the difference with masturbation."

"Sherlock! We talked about the specific sex acts!" I object.

"I didn't know that qualified. That's more the who you're having sex with. There are several different sex acts under that category," he says apologetically.

"And however you are measuring how often I do that needs to stop," I say glaring at him.

"If you are going to keep adding rules to this relationship you'd better make me a list," he grumbles.

"With pleasure," I say giving him a cheeky grin.

"For the record Sherlock. You telling me about your asexuality would have been a kinder way to respond to my feelings for you," Molly says.

"He didn't owe you that though," Mycroft says protectively, "He didn't have to out himself for your comfort."

"That is true," Molly says thoughtfully.

"Are we ready for cake?" Sherlock asks cheerfully.

"Yes, and our guests will all be grateful that I didn't let Sherlock jump out of it," I said.

"I'm sorry, dears," Mrs. Hudson interrupts, "But are you engaged?"

"I don't know why everyone keeps thinking that," Sherlock says.

"The invitations, Sherlock," I say with an eye roll.

"There won't be any engagement anytime soon," he says going to get the cake.

Mummy Holmes makes a tutting sound soft enough that I can hope Sherlock missed it.

His father retrieves my daughter who goes into his arms willingly.

-0-

"Die?" Rosie asks Sherlock with a mouthful of cake, some of which dripples onto the table.

"Not yet sweetie, we have to wait for everyone to finish eating yet," he corrects her.

"Sherlock?" I ask with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, don't worry, she's not really going to die," he says dismissively.

"What is going to happen?" I press.

"There is a murder mystery," he grins.

"Body!" Rosie proclaims pointing to herself with both hands. One of her hands still contains the fork, and so she ends up spraying crumbs all over the place.

"You're kidding right?" I ask.

"It's actually based on a few of your cold files I solved," Sherlock says to Lestrad, "So, when you're done…"

"I'll have a whole bunch of paperwork to do?" he asks.

"And some families will have closure," I point out.

Lestrad sighs. "I don't suppose you could just tell us the solution?"

"Murder!" Rosie declares "Did it!"

"Thank you," he tells the little girl, "The murderer did it," he chuckles to the table. "It wasn't a very good deduction," Sherlock tells her, "But it was a very good sentence," he ruffles her hair.


	16. Relationship Rules for Sherlock Holmes

Relationship Rules for Sherlock by John

Do not use illegal drugs.

Do you keep dead body parts in the flat.

Don't take Rosie anywhere that might be dangerous. If the flat gets dangerous, take her somewhere else.

Do not talk about our sex lives with anyone but me.

Do not drug me or anyone I consider family or friend.

Avoid being manipulative whenever possible.

If you need or want something ask, I'll say no if it's not okay.

Tell me what is going on in that funny little head of yours. Not all the time, I'm not sure anyone could handle that, but sometimes.

I'm fine with most of your obsession with using my things, but the following are off limits: deodorant, socks, toothbrush, and pants.

No kissing, flirting, dancing, or giggling at a crime scene.

Don't try to be anyone but yourself with me. You are exactly who I want.

Sherlock frowns looking at the list, "The toothbrush one is irrational. We share far more germs by kissing than we would by sharing a toothbrush."

"It's still a rule, Sherlock," I reply.

"Fine," he grumbles.

"Any other objections?" I ask.

He looks over the list carefully one more time. Then he shakes his head.

"You have anything you want to add on?" I ask.

"Why would I want to add on to a list of things that I can't do?" he asks befuddled.

"You could put things on there that I'm not allowed to do," I explain.

"I would never want to limit you," he says in a way that is so open and honest I feel like a jerk for making the list. But…I need boundaries with him. Don't I?

"I'm sorry," I mutter.

"Sorry?" he asks surprised.

"About the list. I should just trust you."

"God no! Don't trust me! I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I like having all the can and can'ts right here in black and white. It makes it far less likely that I'm going to muck this all up, and lose the two people that are the most important to me in the whole world," he says finishing the speech by giving me a huge hug.

"I love you," I say ruffling his hair.

Mine is still weird from the curling last night, even after a shower and a vigorous brushing, but he touches it like he always does. Fingers going right into the scalp, and making the short journey to the end of the hair.

God that feels good.

"I don't think I ever really appreciated this before," I whisper.

"What?" he asks.

"The touching parts. Fingers on my scalp, on my face. Our pinkies brushing. Hands on my chest, my arms…"

"Tactile affection," he whispers running a hand down my spinal chord in a way that makes my entire body twitch.

He giggles, and I fall into his chest, "I'm not sure I'm touchy feely enough for you," I mutter, "I should touch you more."

"Don't you dare change anything about our physical relationship, it's perfect," he whispers in my ear.

I never believed that "made for each other," crap before, but it's quite clear that Sherlock and I were.

-0-

Sherlock and I are lying in bed reading the morning paper over cups of tea. Rosie is sitting between us having a very animated conversation with her teddy bear. I don't quite know if Sherlock actually understand what she is saying, or if he's just a better actor than I am, but every time she pauses he makes some response like, "Obvious," which she deems as evidence that he's following the conversation.

"I've been thinking about what my mother said," Sherlock suddenly announces.

I blink at him trying to re-play the coming out party for what specifically he might be talking about.

"About getting married," he continues.

Shit. He's not going to propose like this is he? I mean, too soon, right? That's what I meant to think.

"My mom mentioned it, and I wanted…" he says nervously.

"Oh, Sherlock," I say leaning my head against his shoulder, "Mothers say things like that. They push. It doesn't mean I expect that so soon." Although, when I thought he was asking I was not nearly as opposed to it as I probably should have been.

"You don't expect it now, but you will one day?"

"Maybe, Sherlock. I think most people who are dating think about it, but it's too soon to know," I say.

"I know," he says firmly. I pull away and look at his face trying to determine the meaning. "I know that I'm not going to marry you."

I blink, trying to hide the pain in the pit of my stomach. "Your telling me that you're already sure we're not going to last? Why are we still doing this then?"

"No, I think we'll last, get our happily ever after. I just don't think we'll be married."

"I can live with that," I tell him.

"Does one…explain things to their mother?" he asks.

"Maybe at some point. Not yet. You want to explain it to me, though? You don't have to," I add.

"I only planned on making one vow, and I couldn't even keep that one. I think I'll work on that vow I made you back then instead of trying to make new ones," he says.

"I've forgiven you for what happened to Mary," I shake my head, "I shouldn't even need to forgive you. You didn't do anything wrong. She made a choice."

"It's not guilt, or at least all guilt. I promised to take care of you and Rosie. I feel like marriage vows would be repetitive."

"God, I love you," I say slapping a kiss on his cheek.

"You accept my reasoning?" he seems surprised.

"Well, I think you are very sweet. I would be okay loving you forever without a piece of paper, yes. But your reasoning is illogical."

"Illogical? Well, look at that John, you're humanizing me."

"You were human the whole time, Sherlock," I say seriously, and then he kisses my check just like I kissed his not that long ago.

"She also talked about children," he observes.

I sit up, and pull away a bit so I can look at his face for this conversation, "And how are you feeling about that?"

"You are a very good father John. I am not as skilled as you, but Rosie seams to accept me as adequate. I would enjoy having more children."

"You are an amazing dad, Sherlock," I correct. He grins at me. "If we do have children in the future, I'd love them to be yours."

"Ours?" he says confused.

"Right, I was talking about genetics," I chuckle.

"No," he says firmly.

"Sherlock, you are a genius, and…"

"You've met my sister, John. That's not a risk that I'm willing to take. I hadn't considered genetic children," he says slowly, "You do make wonderful children John, and I would be happy to raise more of them with you. I was thinking more of adoption."

"Adopting a baby with you would be amazing," I tell him.

"Not a baby," he pauses, "When I was a child I never thought that I would be with someone. I knew that I was different from a pretty young age. I used to think, years ago, that if I ever became a father I would take someone who really needed it. Someone who no one else wanted."

"An older child?" I ask.

"A teenager. A lot of LGBT youth are kicked out of the house at a very young age."

"That's bloody awful," I say.

"You don't look particularly surprised."

"Almost happened to Harry," I admit.

He nods, "I thought that was what was behind neither of you having anything to do with their parents. My parents didn't kick me out. I was stupid enough to leave. But I know what it's like to be a teenager living rough," he says, "Actually, if we did end up taking in a teenager in these circumstances they would be more likely to be like me than if we raised my genetic offspring."

"That's a fair point," I tell him.

"Of course, it would be a lot more difficult job."

"A lot more important one too. Sherlock, nothing with you is the easy way. I wouldn't want it to be easy. I'd be okay with an adventure in child raising."

"Even if there were some drugs involved?" Sherlock asks nervously.

"Once you have taken in one drug addled stray I suppose two wouldn't hurt," I observe.

He takes a long sip of tea, and opens up the newspaper before him once more. I think the conversation is over, until he says, "Will my mother be angry at me?"

"Oh, Sherlock. She's going to be fine as long as she knows that you are happy."

"I am that, John," he says putting out his hand for me to take.


	17. The Mystery of the Dress

"Huders girl," Rosie declares.

"That's right," Sherlock says.

"Daddy boy," she declares firmly. "Swerock boy?" she asks with slightly less certainty which I hope won't offend him.

"Right again," he says.

"Rosie?" she asks.

"I don't know Rosie, what are you?" Sherlock asks. For a second I thought he was teasing her, but I look at his face, and he was dead serious.

She shrugs her shoulders.

Sherlock walks over to the pile of children's books that always seams to make it into the sitting room no matter how many times I clean it up. He pulls out a where's waldo, and starts identifying the gender of all the characters one by one.

"Rosie girl," she declares hallway through the first page.

"All right then, you are," he says kissing her forehead.

"Does Rosie want some tea?" I ask her holding out her favorite tea cup.

She jumps off his lap, and waddles toward me. Her refusal of the high chair has become a pretty regular thing, so she just climbs up on the chair, and begins sipping the milk out of the cup loudly.

"No slurping, little one," Sherlock cautions. "You've got tea for me too?"

"Hudders warm tea," Rosie informs us.

"Does she now?" I ask. Damned that women spoiling her. The only cups my daughter drinks out of are not microwave safe. I grab my mug, dump her tea into it, and put it in the microwave.

"Micave tea!" Rosie exclaims in horror.

"It's not really tea," I protest.

She starts to cry.

"Allright, how does Mrs. Hudson make your tea?" I ask.

"She warms the milk in a pan, clearly," Sherlock says dumping the cup into a pan.

"Swerock good tea," she says peacefully.

I kiss him putting my hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. The dressing gown that he always wears when we're in bed together, except when I request the coat. I wonder if maybe Sherlock was so careful about letting Rosie choose his gender, because no one gave him that privilege when he was younger.

-0-

I roll Sherlock on top of myself in bed, spraying the dressing gown over both of us in a way I've come to deeply appreciate in our time together. It's only as the silky fabric hits my arms that I remember the question I'd wanted to ask. The question that I'd sworn I was going to ask before we ever became intimate again.

"Sherlock, the gown," he mutters.

"In the way?" he asks reaching a hand in between us to try to get rid of any fabric that might be there.

"No, just," I roll him to the side, and separate our bodies for a few seconds before I can concentrate and form a complete sentence.

"I was thinking about how seriously you took the question of gender before," I say.

"I know it was a little silly at her age," he says with a sigh.

"No, it was incredibly respectful, not to mention a great intellectual exercise as you helped her form categories. It just made me think about little Sherlock. And how important it is for you to have something to wear with a nice long tail. It was something I thought we should talk about. Remember of course, that it's all okay with me."

He adjusts the dressing gown so that he's covered, and I pull a sheet up over myself so that we both have a better chance at doing serious conversation here.

"I had a cross dressing phase when I was about four. Lots of dresses," he declares with a smile, "My father was pretty understanding. Mummy was horrified." He catches my look of sympathy, and amends himself, "She knew exactly how well a boy in a dress would go over at the posh school I'd start the next year. She was trying to protect me. Mycroft was always so worried about her feelings, ever since I can remember he was trying to cushion things for her. So, he tried to get me back into pants. It didn't go well for him."

"I imagine not."

"He tried to force me physically first, and I bit them. Then he tried to bribe me, but I was never into material possessions the way that he was. In the end he found me a coat. Even longer than the ones I wear now days. There was a whole lot more flare to it to, I mean, the coat was clearly a woman's coat. If I remember correctly there was some lace. There was a bit of a tussle next year when I wouldn't take the coat off in school, but the teacher was pretty understanding. She had really short hair, and I'm not so sure she wasn't a bit gender non-conforming herself. I was lucky."

"So, Sherlock do I use the right, pronoun?" I ask softly.

He laughs, "Oh God yeah. I'm male. For sure. I don't think I ever really doubted that. I just have a little issue with how sharply the line is drawn between the two genders."

"So, the dressing gown softens the line?" I ask.

"I know it's stupid. I just don't feel sexy without it. I don't even really feel whole without it when we're being intimate," he bemoans softly.

"I like it," I admit. "I like the coat during sex even more, but not for everyday."

"Good," he declares.

"I would sort of like to see you in a dress sometime. Is that weird?" I ask quickly.

"I haven't worn one for years, but I wouldn't mind experimenting. Just not during sex," he responds crinkling up his nose at the idea.

"God no!" I declare.

"As long as we are making requests, I would love to see you in your army uniform," he informs me.

"Not during sex, but yeah," I tell him grinning. God the look on his face is so happy it turns my stomach.

"I'm glad you asked these questions. It makes me feel really close to you," he says pulling me close for a really long kiss. He pulls away, "Close enough that tonight we could…" he rolls to his side, and pulls the dressing gown off his back, draping it over his front. I let my hand run across the silky fabric, and then settle on his waist.

"You sure?" I ask moving close to his ear and whispering in it.

"Do I strike you as a person who lack's certainty?" he asks.

I chuckle, moving up against his back. Spooning Sherlock should have gotten old at some point in the five months that we've been together but it hasn't.

He's nervous enough that he's not fully hard. I debate how to fix the problem. There was touch of course, but touch is boring. I lean forward, and whisper in his ear, "Fantastic."

I divide his cheeks, and put myself between them. Sherlock puts his fingers on my wrist which is resting on my hip, enjoying the increase in heart rate.

"I've never done this before," I whisper.

"Sholto?" he asks.

"Not this," I say feeling strange talking about another man in this intimate moment, although to be fair, I did bring it up.

"You bottomed?" Sherlock asks.

"Blow jobs," I admit. Sherlock shutters a bit. I don't know why that sex act is so offensive to him, but I've figured out it's off limits. That's fine.

"Sorry," I whisper. I put my hand forward, and he intertwines his fingers with mine, "Did I ruin the moment?" I ask kissing his shoulder.

"We're both virgins with this," he says rocking back against me.

I slip inside of him. I feel completely surrounded. He squeezes me inside him at the same second that he squeezes my hand. I stay frozen in that perfect moment so long my thoughts return to me, "You make sex like a hug."

"Not good?" he asks concerned.

"So fucking good," I correct.


	18. Grimmy Little Street Urchin

"I packed everything Rosie will need for the weekend, please don't forget to give them the bag when they come. It's sitting on my chair," I tell Sherlock.

"You think I can't remember to hand a bag to her grandparents?" he asks insulted.

"Sherlock, sometimes you're going to have let me worry without being personally insulted. That's part of being a parent."

"It's an inefficient waste of energy. If anything is going to hurt Rosie it's going to be something neither of us thought of. Also, her going to her grandparents without a bag would not be a disaster," he corrects.

"Clearly you've never actually tried to change her without a nappy," I declare.

"I think she's mostly beyond the changing stage," he says thoughtfully.

"I feel bad not being here to send her away before her first weekend away," I say rocking back and forth indecisively from my feet to my heals.

"Go wake her up and say goodbye," he says.

"Okay!" I say chipperly giving him a quick kiss on his cheek before running upstairs.

When I get upstairs Rosie is already standing in the crib. She could probably climb out, but Sherlock told her that only plebeians crawled out of their crib before someone came to get them. I don't think that's going to work for very long, but I'll take what I can get.

"Gran 'ouse!" she declares clapping her hands together.

"That's right, you are going to Granddad and Grandmum's house today."

"Da come?" she asks with her face scrunching up.

I forced a bigger grin on my face, because I have to make sure that my fears don't get transferred onto her, "No, you're not going to need me! Granddad, and Grandmum are going to be taking such good care of you that you're not even going to miss me. Besides, you'll see me again before long." I scoop her up, and give her a kiss on her cheek.

"Two sleeps?" she asks holding up two fingers. I'm not sure that she actually understands what this means, or whether or not she is just parroting back something we've told her.

"That's right."

She snuggles in to my chest, and I carry her down the steps to where Sherlock is waiting to take her. "Goodbye baby girl. Daddy loves you," I whisper.

"Lobe you," she returns lazily, not fully awake.

"Your tea is ready," Sherlock says placing her on the chair. Then he grabs me by the elbow, and drags him into his own bedroom. "John, do you think I'd be a good father?"

"I think you ARE a good father," I gently correct.

He grins at that.

"Anything else?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

"I like this, coming right out and asking for reassurance thing. It's honest," I say giving him another kiss. Not quick and chaste like the one on his cheek before, but intense and romantic.

"You're going to be late for work," he whispers still more in my mouth than not.

I groan, because he's right, and then I leave.

-0-

I must have been thinking about missing my daughter far too much, because it doesn't occur to me that tonight would be the first night without a baby in the house that Sherlock and I had ever shared.

Needless to say I was a little surprised when I come home from work that night, and Sherlock wasn't home.

I was a lot more surprised when a grubby pre-adolescent boy was in the flat. Standing there like he didn't quite know what to do with himself. He looks scared when I enter.

"Sherlock home?" I ask.

"No," he says looking scared.

"I'm John, his…" I debate going with flatmate since he's so young, but something in the tentative look makes me land on honesty, "boyfriend. Can I make you some food while you wait for him? I'm sure he never thought to ask you."

"He didn't," the boy says quietly smiling. Then he quickly adds, "But he did offer me tea."

"Yes, he thinks just because he doesn't eat the rest of us don't either. Let's see…" I say looking at the fridge with a frown, "I guess I can only offer you a grilled cheese or an omelet."

"Grilled cheese, please," the boy says.

I start the pan to melting butter, and he watches me sort of fascinated. As if he's studying me or trying to make some kind of deduction.

"How old are you?" I ask.

"Twelve," he practically whispers.

I would have guessed much younger. Although, I'm not even sure that he's small for his age. It's more likely that I just don't remember how small children are when they are only twelve years old. I put cheese between the bread before glancing at the child.

"And what do they call you?" I ask.

The child's voice is scared beside me as he asks, "Sherlock didn't tell you anything about me did he?"

"It's not the first time that some part of his homeless network has showed up in the flat, although I will say you are the youngest one yet," I tell him flipping the sandwich into the pan.

"I'm not part of the network, whatever it is," his voice says looking scared and small. "I'm just going to go. Tell Sherlock thanks for me."

I turn toward him, "Please stay. At least long enough to get some dinner in you. Maybe a shower and clothes wash if you'll allow it. The night if you don't have anywhere better to go," I say. I hate the idea of this child fending for himself. Sleeping on the hard ground with the elements. He's someone's baby. What if this was Rose?

He tilts his head, "You're being kind. Even though you don't know."

"Know what, Sweetie?" I ask. Then suddenly I realize. A grin crosses my face. I pull him into a tight hug, "I didn't know what was happening. I'm so sorry if I made you feel like you weren't wanted for even a second."

"He didn't tell you?" the kid asks.

"Months ago we agreed that we'd become parents to someone just like you one day, and this morning he asked me if I thought he was a good father. Honestly, I should have been smart enough to know what that meant."

"It wasn't much to go on."

"There never is with Sherlock," I chuckle.

The rescue the grilled cheese just as it begins to burn, by flipping it over. Then I pour a glass of milk tall enough to make up for any nutrients he might be lacking. "Now, it's a little ridiculous I've gotten this far into the conversation without even knowing what you're called."

"Theo," he mutters.

"Where is Sherlock, Theo?" I ask.

"He went to talk to my dad," he mutters pulling the crust off his sandwich.

My heart drops into my shoes. "About?"

His feet kick under the table. Good god he feet don't even reach the floor. "My dad kicked me out. Sherlock said he would either make him take me back and treat me right, or sign papers so I can live with you." He takes a huge bite of the sandwich. "I hope I can stay with you."

No one could want to cast off their child like this, could they?

"What about your mother?" I ask.

"She died when I was little."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say.

He takes another bite, focusing on his sandwich, swinging his legs.

"Can you tell me about your dad?" I ask softly.

"What does fag mean?" he asks.

My face goes hard. "Your dad called you that?"

He nods.

"Then he told you to leave?"

He drops his sandwich, and his legs go still, and he nods.

"I can't imagine telling my kid to leave," I declare.

He looks at me, "Even if he kissed a boy?" he asks. "On purpose?" he adds.

"You do know that I regularly kiss a man, on purpose?" I ask.

He chuckles.

"But I can't think of anything. Literally anything, that would make me ask my child to leave."

He smiles. Then frowns. He stands up, slowly removing his ratted sweatshirt, and raising his sleeve.

Tract marks. Four of them.

"I meant, nothing, Theo. But can I clean them for you?" I ask gently.

He nods. Looking up at me with hope. Promises are bubbling up inside of me, and I bite hard to keep them from spilling out before I know whether or not they can keep them. I hug him instead. I feel quiet sobs against my chest, and I'm not entirely sure I'm not going to join him.


	19. Mycroft's soft eyes

When Sherlock walks in Theo is in the middle of a giggle. We're playing Cludo. He's somewhat fascinated by the knife marks in the bored.

Mycroft appears behind him with his eyes all soft like when he thinks Sherlock's going to use drugs or grieve, or go to jail forever. Only this time the eyes are firmly planned on the little boy sitting in Sherlock's chair. He looks even smaller in the oversized clothes. The sweater isn't so bad, mostly because Sherlock tried to do the laundry once and shrank it. The sweatpants, even rolled up several times, require him to keep a constant hold on them.

His clothes should be out of the dryer soon, but it looks like it's unnecessary based on that bag Sherlock is carrying.

"What did he say?" the little boy asks.

"Your father granted them temporary in locus parentas guardianship, on the path toward abdicating parental rights in favor of adoption," Mycroft says.

Theo silently glances from Sherlock to me to explain.

"I thought you said he was clever," Mycroft says to his brother. There have been many times when I wanted to punch Mycroft, but none so intensely as this.

"He is clever, but he's also human," Sherlock flings Mycroft's way before smiling, "It means your dad says we can take care of you for now, and he's open to the idea of forever."

Theo launches himself toward Sherlock aiming for a hug, but ends up tripping over the edges of the pants.

Sherlock scoops him up like he is Rosie. He set his down after a few minutes, "I brought you some clothes. Your dad said we could go back tomorrow and get anything else you wanted out of your bedroom."

"Thank you," Theo says taking the suitcase from him.

"Go on up to John's room upstairs, and get changed," Sherlock instructs.

Theo freezes, "John's room? You sleep in different rooms?"

"We haven't in months no," Sherlock explains, "We've just been rotating between the two rooms."

"We'll stay in your room of course, now that Theo is with us," I say to him.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson is going to let us take the fourth-floor room she uses as a guest room for Theo," Sherlock says with a wave of his hand, "It just won't be ready for a few days."

"Might not be a bad idea to let Rosie have her own room anyway," I observe.

Theo heads up the stairs.

"I like being able to tell you whether or not we are going to have sex just by which room we're in," Sherlock says pouting.

"We'll figure out another non-verbal signal for you to give me when your brother isn't around, huh?" I ask.

"I don't want your jumpers next to my suits," he pouts.

"What if just I moved, and we negotiated the clothes a few months later?" I prompt.

"I suppose I could live with that," he admits.

I turn to Mycroft, "Thank you for helping with this."

"I actually came back to make sure that you agreed with this. He told me that he hadn't asked you beforehand?" Mycroft says with concern.

"We talked about a child in theory, but this one waiting for me when I came home was a bit of a surprise," I admit looking at Sherlock out of the corner of my eye.

"I didn't leave him alone. Mrs. Hudson was watching him, even if she was downstairs," Sherlock defends.

"An addition to the family might have warranted a phone call at work to let me know," I tell Sherlock.

"You said I could have an abandoned child, and I found one…" Sherlock begins complaining.

"Do not talk like I'm allowing you to have a pet," I interrupt, "He's going to be our son, at least temporarily, and hopefully forever. I am glad that he's here. I'm just saying that a little warning would have been nice."

"I don't understand why you need warnings for things that are good," Sherlock declares once more.

"If you are sure about this I will need you to sign some papers," Mycroft says, "I'll be the witness."

"Of course," I say.

He lays them out on the table, "I really do need to check once more to make sure my brother has not talked you into this."

"My first choice was for us to have Sherlock's genetic child through surrogacy, but I think Sherlock might be right in that this is better," I say.

Mycroft's eyes light up at my words.

"John, you shouldn't have told him that we considered that. He's going to be insufferable now."

Mycroft ignores his brother, "Why did you decide against Sherlock's genetic child?"

"For all the reasons that I already gave you!" Sherlock exclaims, "Our sister being chief among them!"

Mycroft continues to talk to me, "Just know that if you can convince him to change his mind I would be willing to help you with that as well, anyway that you needed me too."

"No thanks! I'd prefer if my brother wasn't involved with the conceiving of a child," Sherlock announces looking disturbed, and I really can't blame him.

"I was offering to select surrogates," Mycroft defends narrowing his eyes at his brother.

"You're actually making this less appealing, Mycroft, and besides, I don't really want our family to be expanding any more right now," I say.

"Maybe someday?" Sherlock asks looking seriously at me.

"Maybe," I say smiling at him. "But for now I'll sign some papers for our new son." My face breaks into a giant grin at the word.

Sherlock turns toward the door, "Theo, come back in."

"You want to watch me sign the papers?" I ask him as he stands uncertainly at the door.

"Sherlock too?" he asks with a soft voice.

"I already signed," he says with regret.

"Trace if over," Mycroft says in his best commanding voice. Proving that this boy has already wiggled his way into his uncle's heart.

-0-

A whimper awakes me, and it takes me far too long to realize that the sound did not come from the man beside me. I follow the sound to the couch in the other room. Theo is laying on it looking perfectly miserable.

I kneel down in front of him. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't mean to wake you up. I couldn't get to sleep, sometimes when I move from one place to another it helps. I used to sleep on the couch at home. I'm sorry if…"

"It's fine. Are you sick?" I ask slowly swiping the hair off his forehead like my mother used to do for me when I was little.

"It's my own fault," he says.

Sweating. Runny nose. A little tremor in his hand put over his stomach like he's in pain.

"Withdraw," I observe.

He nods, looking ashamed.

"How long has it been?" I ask continuing the forehead thing which he is really enjoying.

"This afternoon," he says.

"How often have you been using?" I ask trying hard not to go clinical. He needs a parent far more than he needs a doctor right now, although he does definitely need a doctor as well.

"Most days."

"How much?"

He shrugs, "I didn't make the needles up."

"I'm so sorry honey, but we're going to have to go into my clinic and run a few tests."

"Am I going to be okay?" he asks.

"Of course, you are. But it can be dangerous to stop cold turkey. I just have to find out if this is mild enough for you to ride through by yourself, or if it's something you need a little medicine for. Either way you're going to be okay."

He nods.

"Do you want to get dressed? I am going to wake up Sherlock."

"He's coming?" Theo says wearing an expression which can only be described as unreadable.

"Do you want him to come?"

"I think so," he nods, "But I don't want him to have to wake up in the middle of the night."

"Well, Either one of us would give up just about anything for you. If you are sick you need to wake us up. If you need something you should never be afraid of bothering us. You my precious one, are never in the way."

The way his eyes focus on me I can't help but wonder what his home life was like before his father found out that he was gay. I remember things being okay, if not quite good before Harry came out. I'm not sure that Theo ever had a happy family life.

I wake Sherlock up by wiping curls away from his forehead in much the same way I had just been using on Theo.

His eyes pop open, and stares at me with a startled and almost frightened look.

"Theo is having some withdraw, and I need to do blood work."

"I didn't think it would be that bad," Sherlock says hoping up, and rushing around the room in a scattered way that doesn't really take into account how clean and organized the room is.

"I don't think it is that bad, calm down."

He is still not able to find anything to put on. So, I grab onto his shoulders, and model taking a really deep breath.

He mimics me.

"I remember withdraw," he says.

"I'm sure he's fine. He just doesn't know how much he was taking. I'm being overprotective."

"Withdraw is awful, and he's young. Way too young to have to deal with this."

"I know," I tell him. Then I wonder, "How old were you when you started using?"

"Older than him," he says, "Sixteen."

"I just can't wrap my head around a kid that young having used drugs," I whisper.

"Most lifelong addicts start using something very young, although heroin is rare for his age."

"We're going to get through this," I say throwing on yesterday's clothes, because all of mine are still up in Rosie's room. Yeah, we're going to have to do something about the clothes situation.


	20. Needles

Theo is clearly trying not to act as if the needle is bothering him as much as it is, and I'm about to bounce into full doctor mode to deal with the phobia. But Sherlock sees it, just as he sees everything.

"You are going to have to help me, Theo. I don't like needles," he lies.

"Really?" Theo asks.

"Not even when they have something I want in them, but even more so when it's taking my blood," Sherlock says, "Will you hold my hand when it happens?"

Theo nods, "I don't like blood. Once when Dan did my medicine he made me bled, and I cried. I called me…" he looks down not finishing the sentence.

"Who is Dan?" I ask. I don't ask what medicine means, because I can guess that's how heroin was billed to him.

"Dan is a dealer who likes to use kids to push, because they are less likely to get arrested. He gets them hooked so they do their dirty work for them. Of course, Lestrad isn't afraid to arrest a kid when he knows it will turn out better for them. He did it to me, and he did it to Theo."

I take the blood while Dan is focused on Sherlock's story.

"This Dan in jail?" I ask.

"Yes, but he probably won't stay there for long," Sherlock says with a sigh, "He really has a way of weaseling out charges. He'll probably end up back on the street before too long."

"We'll have to find some present for Lestrad and Mycroft for making our family whole," I say. "I'm going to go start the tests on this."

Theo looks at his arm, completely shocked to see that the job is done.

"Wow, Theo, you made it so easy for me that I didn't even know he took your blood!" Sherlock says causing the kid to grin. He knows that we've played him, and he likes it.

He shivers, and Sherlock pulls his coat off, and wraps it around the little boy.

"Thank you," he practically whispers.

-0-

"Okay kiddo," I say pulling a chair near enough to Theo to be at eye level to him. "Your numbers are in a very safe range. That means you are not going to die whether or not I give you anything. But you're feeling sick, so you've got two choices. I can give you a little something to make it better right now, and then it's going to take you a lot longer to get over this. Or else, we can let you finish this cold turkey. It's going to suck for a couple days, and then it is going to be over."

He looks at me like he doesn't understand, and I'm about to start putting it in other words when he asks, "You're asking me?"

"Yeah, you're the one who has to go through it."

"No one has ever acted like…I was a grown-up before," he says in awe.

"Oh, I am not treating you as a grown-up. I would never do that to you. I don't want you to have to be responsible, and take care of yourself. I'm treating you like a person. You get a say in what happens to you."

"Thank you for that. I think I just want to go home. Unless you think that's a stupid idea," he says insecurely.

"I think that is a very good choice," I tell him.

Then he looks to Sherlock.

"Well done," he smiles.

"Okay, let's get you home, because I know it's a lot more comfortable to be sick at home if you have to be sick."

-0-

Theo finally falls asleep when the sun starts to come through the window. Even then, I don't stop stroking his head for a little bit. Sherlock played the violin for him. Not a new song, because that would have been too herkie jerky to lull a boy to sleep, but something old and classical.

Sherlock watches my fingers, "You should do that to me sometime."

I'm surprised by the request, but try my best not to show it. "Did your mom do this when you were young?"

"I didn't like being touched when I was young. I wouldn't let her hug me. I'm sure she didn't even try this."

"Speaking of your parents, did you tell them about Theo?"

He shakes his head.

"You should."

He reaches for his phone obediently despite the early hour.

"Wait a few hours," I tell him. "I told Rosie's parents. They said they'd like to take on a grandparent role with him. He talked on the phone to them, and his new sister."

Sherlock nods, "Are you going to tell your parents?"

"I am. But I'm not going to let Theo know that I am doing it. That is one place where he's unlikely to have a warm welcome."

"Yes, he has already been rejected by a parent, we don't need to add grandparents onto the list."

I nod looking at the sleeping figure before me. "Sherlock, I don't know that there is anyway I could ever explain to you how grateful I am that I have you. I mean, in my life at all, I've been glad about that for a long time. But in my life like you are now. As my partner. How grateful I am that you've brought me a son into my life."

He hmms like he does when he's tired and half asleep, or like when he takes that first sip of tea in the morning. "I like that word."

"Son?"

"Oh, that one too, but I was thinking of partner."

Was this really the first time that I'd said that one out loud? "It is a good one," I agree.

He pulls a face, "It's not quite the right term though."

"No?" I ask, "Am I going to have to try out a long series of terms of endearment to find one you like?"

"I was thinking husband," Sherlock says.

I blink at him for a long time trying to figure out if he's joking. "You told when we first got together that you never wanted to get married."

"I still don't want a wedding," he says with look of terror like Theo when he saw the needle, "But Theo wasn't included in my first vows. Adoption would have been easier if we were married, and the law would recognize that Rosie and I are what Rosie and I are. Besides, when we got together…" he pauses, "I don't think I realized how much difference there is between what we were when I made that vow and now. I thought that I loved you as much as it was possible to love someone. I was wrong. I love you a lot more now."

I try to form a sentence, but find myself unable.

"Which part was wrong?" he asks.

"None of it!"

"You're crying," he informs me.

"I know. I'm crying because it's really good. But it's not a proposal, okay? We're not going to count that as a proposal. You burst into my first proposal, so I actually get to do the second one."

"It wasn't a proposal. I didn't ask any questions."

"Well, you asked me if I was crying," I say.

"Yes, but that is far from a proposal," he observes.

He kiss him hard and long. "You tired?" I ask pulling away at last.

He shakes his head. "You go get some rest though."

"Wake me up if I'm still sleeping when they bring Rosie round."


	21. Deductions from Wrinkles

"Daddy!" Rosie screams launching herself at me.

"Hey, did you miss me?" I tease squeezing her tight.

"She's a bit young for sarcasm, John," Sherlock says.

"Daddy loves you baby girl," I sooth her.

She puts out her hand to Sherlock, and I take the hint by allowing her to transfer herself over to him.

"Miss Swelock," she declares.

"Yes, baby your father and I missed you," he says giving her a squeeze before saying, "You ready to meet your big brother?"

She hides her face in his shoulder.

"Now is not the time to be shy. Say hello to Theo," he prods.

"Give her time," I plead.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but just glances toward Theo. I look to him, and my stomach falls as I realize why Sherlock is pushing the toddler to accept him. He's devastated that he and his sister are not instantly bonding with one another.

"You've got a hug for your grandad?" Walter asks.

A slight smile appears on the boy's face as he hugs the man.

"I'm so glad you're going to be a part of this family now. We'll have to come up with some activities that both a toddler and a teenager will enjoy," Catherine says.

"He's not a teenager quite yet, don't you go rushing things," Sherlock scolds lightly.

"Tea is an activity for all ages," I suggest moving toward the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"You'll have to help us out with the grandparent thing. We are rather new at it, only having a few months of experience."

"I'm not very familiar with the idea of having grandparents either," Theo admits shyly.

"How did she sleep?" I ask nervously, because even though my daughter's first night away from home is no longer the biggest thing that happened to our family last night was Rosie's first day without us, it's still big.

"Well, once we finally got her down to sleep. She put up a fight though, so it was a lot later than her normal bedtime."

"You played the violin music for her didn't you?" Sherlock says without a voice that only sounds like reproach.

"Yes, we had it on for the first hour," Catherine says, "It really just seamed to point out to her that you weren't there."

"Swelock better," Rosie says taking her face from Sherlock's shoulder for the first time since we suggested that she interact with her brother.

"Does he play music better than the tape?" I ask.

She nods.

"Daddy 'nuggle," she says.

"Okay," I say taking her out of his arms, and snuggling her. "Not now!" she says pushing me away for a second before flopping into me, deciding that in fact she did mean now. "Daddy nuggle bedtime."

I had never realized that I was necessary for the bedtime process.

"You told me that it was bad form to be proud that she can't sleep without me. I would like to give you the same reminder," Sherlock says dealing with the singing kettle since my arms are now full of toddler.

-0-

Text message from John Watson to his mother:

My (male) partner and I are adopting a twelve-year-old boy. You now have two grandchild you have not met. You can let me know anytime you want to change that.

Text message from Mrs. Watson to John Watson (eighteen hours after his text was received):

Dinner?

It took me several hours to recover from the fact that my mom's version of family reconciliation was the exact same as Irene's version of flirting with Sherlock Holmes.

Then I tell Sherlock. "My parents want to meet you and the kids."

"Good!" he says enthusiastically. Then he examines my face, and makes some very necessary deductions, "Not good?"

"I just don't know how it's going to go. I am scared to trust the emotional well being of my children to them."

He nods, "Let's start with just the two of us then. Hmmm? If they can be nice to me they can definitely be nice to anymore."

I chuckle. "I don't really want them to hurt you either."

He looks at me for a while, "You don't want them to hurt you anymore. That's valid, why don't you just say that?"

I don't know if he's wrong, or if he's right, and I just didn't know what I had been thinking before he told me. The knowledge that at least part of what is going through my mind is fear-based causes me to make the decision. I'm not going to deny my parents access to their grandchildren, or my children access to their grandparents just because I'm scared. "We'll see how they do with the two of us."

-0-

Driving in the country with Sherlock remembers me of going to Darmore. We shared a room, and it was the first time that I feel asleep to the sound of Sherlock's breath. I thought it was pleasant back then, but I now know it was a lot more pleasant to fall asleep to when you have your head right on his chest. His breath MOVED me in both a literal and figurative sense.

That trip was when I started giving up on correcting people when they thought that Sherlock and I were a couple, not just because they would never believe my denials, but because even back then I knew that there was some truth to it. We were, back then, as couple as Sherlock could manage.

Back then, I thought that Sherlock's sexuality was not going to change. I thought that Sherlock could only be loved the way that I loved him then. That he could only love me as much as he loved me then.

I'm glad I didn't know what was all coming, because if I did know all of that I would never have been with Mary, and I won't regret that. Ever.

"Put away your guilt wrinkles," Sherlock says.

"I don't have wrinkles," I object.

He snorts.

I glare.

"You have four distinct sets of wrinkles. One set is there all the time, therefore it provides no information apart from how often you were exposed to sun and smoking during your youth…"

"I never smoked," I object.

"I didn't say you did. Does your mother still smoke by the way? And if so can we take a one-day vacation on my having quit?"

"No, and no, and how did you know it wasn't my father?"

"Well, I did have to rely on a bit of a gender stereotype there. There are a lot of wrinkles. I was assuming your mother was the parent who stayed home, and changed all of the nappies while your father worked."

"I think it had more to do with the driving with the windows down while smoking," I observe.

"Hmm," he says thoughtfully, "Quite possibly."

I think I've successfully distracted him from talking about all the flaws on my face, but I was wrong.

"The second set is my favorite one. It's the crinkly ones that form around your eyes. They get deepest when you are really pleased with something that I've done, but don't want me to know about it, because I've done something not good."

"You must have lots of chances to observe that one."

"I try pretty hard to have as many opportunities to see it as possible, yes."

I know I'm making that face right now, and I don't even care.

"You know, I won't love you as much if you always did the right thing," I admit.

"I know, I'd be as boring as the rest of the goldfish then. You have another set of wrinkles which will do for either sad or angry. I have never seen anyone whose sad or angry face is so similar."

"Well, with you the sad and angry tend to get a little mixed together."

"Yes, the only way I can tell you are angry and not sad is when you refer to me as male genitalia."

"What?" I ask in shock.

"Usually 'cock' but occasionally 'dickhead'. You don't call others that. I enjoy knowing that I remind you of a penis."

"That's not exactly what that insults mean."

"I think they do subtexually, or subconsciously. It's possibly Freudian."

"I'm just swearing at you in frustration. It's not about sex."

"You could have chosen one of the other swear words. You could have talked about excrement or urine."

"If I call you a cock can we move on from this conversation now?" I ask.

"I'd prefer sod. Technically accurate. Historically weighty. Almost sentimental."

"Technically I'm the sodomite," I point out.

He grins at that. He loves it when I take his absurdities seriously.

The conversation lulls into that comfortable silence that can only flow between people who have been with each other for a long time. It's five minutes later when Sherlock observes, "Sometimes you use the same wrinkles on Rosie, when she does something cute that you don't want her to do anymore." At my alarm he adds, "Don't worry, I don't think she can see through it quite yet. I don't like sharing your exasperated wrinkles with our daughter."

My head turns to him at the use of the word "our."

"Not good?" he asks.

"No, I'm really glad you think of her that way," I say trying to take his hand.

"You are endangering both of our lives by impairing my driving!" Sherlock objects.

I let go of his hand, and put my arm around his shoulder.

"You're still distracting me."

I drop my hand down with a sigh.

"You're still distracting me!" he declares.

"What. Do. You. Want. Me. To. Do. About. It. Jump out of the car?" I say in frustration.

"No. I don't know. Stop loving me, or being handsome until we get there or something," he demands.

I chuckle as I lean against the window of the car. I can see my reflection in the glass. I see all the wrinkles I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to ignore. Today, they are beautiful to me.


	22. Coming Home

"Johnny!" my mother says. She hasn't called me that since I was six, and I really don't appreciate the artificial affection that she is trying to inject the conversation with. The hug she gives me is full of false affection too.

Sherlock and my father exchange a hand shake before mum pulls Sherlock into a hug as well. "I'm so glad he found you!" Mum exclaims.

Dad gives me a manly back pat half hug thing.

Mum gushes, "You didn't bring the grandkids? I would love to meet them."

"I thought I'd see how this went before we involved children," I say.

"Right, of course," Mum says looking wounded.

"He's right. We don't deserve to meet our grandkids until we've at least tried to repair the damage we did to our own children," My father says.

I glance down.

"I'm sorry son. I knew how the people 'round here felt about people who were gay. I thought that if I could…if I could change your sister and you. Or at least teach you to hide. I really thought I was making your lives easier. I was wrong. All it did was make you feel as if you were rejected by the people who were most important to you. You would have been better off if we had let you be who you were. Then you would have only been rejected by your peers and not your family."

I smile at him.

"I've missed you son," he says seriously.

Then I give him the real hug that he guessed right about my not wanting a few minutes ago.

"Let's get you a cuppa then," Mum says grabbing onto Sherlock by the crook of his elbow. One of her hands then pats his bicep. "He's posh this one. You didn't tell me he was posh, Johnny."

"I didn't tell you anything about him," I say a bit confused by her turn of phrase.

"We read the blog, dear. We know that you weren't really talking to us, but it was still nice to know a little about what was going on in your life. I mean nice, and terrifying," My dad says with a wry smile I remember so well from my childhood. I hadn't thought about the smile in years. I'd been missing it, without knowing.

"How did you even know about the blog?" I ask. Perhaps they are not a luddite as they were when I was seventeen, but I still can't imagine them randomly googling a name as common as mine, and possibly getting other hits before they landed on the one that was actually me.

"Your sister told us," Mum declares.

"I didn't even realize you had contact with Harry," I say in shock. I didn't realize it, because she told me she didn't have contact. Frequently.

"I would barely call it contact. When something big happens in either of your lives. She texts us few short words, and then doesn't respond to questions," Dad says looking more than a little annoyed.

"You didn't want us at your wedding?" Mum says sounding just as wounded as if it were a day ago.

Shit. I told them it was a little courthouse thing that no one was coming too. Apparently, Harry was a bit more honest. It's not even that I didn't want them to come. I did. Especially when the day arrived. It's just that I didn't think I could invite both them and Harry. So, I choose my sister. I always choose my sister, but she didn't even come.

"Her parents weren't there either, if that helps," Sherlock says. Well, bonus points for quick thinking and honestly for that man.

"Perhaps the next one?" Mum says looking up at Sherlock with hope.

"Don't push them, Doris. We don't want to push them away when they have just gotten back into our lives," Dad scolds.

"It's okay, marriage is actually something we're beginning to talk about," I admit.

Mum claps her hands in glee, and dad's wry smile appears.

"Although we agreed to a marriage without a wedding," Sherlock reminds me. "I already endured a wedding once for you. Speeches and everything. I have no intention of doing it again."

"You liked our coming out party, right? What if we had the same people, plus my parents and Walter and Catherine? Then you could do something dramatic."

"Not for a wedding though. Perhaps a celebration of marriage after the fact," Sherlock says.

"Okay, we'll discuss details later," I agree.

"When can we look forward to this?" Mum asks.

"It's hard to tell. Your son seems to be reluctant to propose," Sherlock pouts.

"I'm not sure how these things work, but…why don't you then?" Dad asks the question with as much embarrassment as if he were asking for details about what we did in out bedroom. He's still uncomfortable with the idea of homosexuality.

"He told me that I wasn't aloud to," Sherlock declares causing both of my parents to turn to me with shock on their faces.

"It's been a few days since you told me you weren't offended by the idea of marriage anymore. Don't you want me to take the time and make it special?" I ask.

"I'm afraid that you are going to decide that you don't want to marry me," Sherlock admits.

"Never going to happen," I say giving him a quick peck on the lips, "You're stuck with me now." I turn to my parents quickly expecting to see the look of disgust that they wore the first time that Harry kissed a girl (in their defense, Veronica was four years older than my sister and wore earrings in the shape of human skulls). There is nothing there, but a half smile on the face of my mother.

They really are okay with my life.

My father puts the kettle on, and my mother starts laying out the cups. Mine is the hedgehog shaped cup that I liked to use when I was small enough that my tea was more milk than tea.

Rosie would love this cup.

"How have you been John?" My mom asks.

"Good," I say.

"You're a doctor?" my father asks. I know that he knows this. I knew how proud they'd be, so I sent them a photocopy of my medical degree. I know Sherlock didn't miss seeing it in the front entry. Damn him, and his observation skills.

I nod.

"Do you like it?" My mum asks urgently.

"I do. I think I love solving crimes, and writing about it more. But I do like going to the office where things are predictable and calm every now and again," I say leaning against the cabinet.

"And I couldn't get along without my blogger," Sherlock says wrapping his arms around me.

"You really do all those dangerous things that you talk about on the blog?" Mum asks concerned.

"Yes, and it makes me feel alive."

"Well, that's good," my father says.

"I have let some of the more dangerous cases go ever since Rosie came to live with me," Sherlock says, "And we never take either of the kids with when there is something dangerous on. We have a downstairs neighbor who takes care of them whenever I need to do something dangerous."

The kettle sings, and mum starts pouring. "What is she like, your daughter?"

"She has definitely inherited my love of danger, Sherlock's intelligence, Mrs. Hudson's love of tea, and her mother's bravery and beauty." I pull a picture out of my pocket. One where she is overdressed for tea with Mrs. Hudson. Her eyes are shinning as she looks right at the camera, and her feet are just a blur from her kicking them under the table.

My mum practically squeals. "Oh, my, God, she's so cute." She stares at it like a starving person for a while, and then hands it back to me, reluctantly.

"Keep it, please. We actually brought you a lot more. I'll get them for you after tea."

"Thank you," she says.

"Any pictures of the grandson in there?" Dad asks.

"A few. We don't have as many yet." I pull out another picture, and hand it to them. He tried to hide himself behind the hand before the picture was taken, but failed. You can still see his smile below the hand, and his glittering eyes above them. "Sorry about that. He's not a huge fan of the camera."

"Harry said his parents kicked him out because she was gay?" Dad asks in shock.

"Yeah, his dad did," I conform.

"I can't imagine. You know we never would have done that with either you or Harry, don't you?" he insists.

I take a sip of the tea, even though it's only half steeped before I answer, "I know."

"Maybe what we did was worse. We made the two of you miserable, and you didn't see an escape hatch to it."

"What you did was definitely not worse," Sherlock says sternly, "Neither of your children ever turned to peddling drugs to prevent themselves from starving to death."

I turn to him, "You did not tell me that part."

"You knew about the drugs," Sherlock says in genuine confusion.

"Yes, but not about the starving part," I say with shock.

"So, all of that goose noodling was natural?" he asks.

"Goose noodling?" I ask slowly.

"When they take the feeding tube and put it down a gooses throat, so they can fatten it up," Sherlock says as if it's obvious.

"I do not goose noodle," I pout.

"That's what we call it when you try to feed us," he declares.

"You do not, I'd have noticed."

"We have sign language for it," I say.

Shit. The memories are coming to me. I make the sign which until right now I thought had to do with the itsy-bitsy spider rhyme. A finger going down his hand.

"Yep," Sherlock grins.

"If you weren't all malnourished I wouldn't have to goose noodle you," I protest.

"Have you tried putting cream in their tea?" My mum asks hopefully. "That's what I used to do when you studied so hard you forgot dinner."

"Don't you worry. Rosie is in the 80% for weight, Theo has gained a pound in the week he's been off the street, and I've put on nine pounds over the weight I was before I met your son."

"To be fair, some of your weight is aging."

"Well, so is all of Rosie's weight, but she still gets credit for it," he remarks causing me to chuckle tea through my nose.


	23. Boy Bands

"Can I see the room where you grew up?" Sherlock asks after tea.

"I'm sure they've changed it by now. I've been moved out for decades," I tell him.

"Of course, we changed it. Putting in a double bed the first time that you lived with a woman back when you were twenty-four. We added a cot when Rosie was born, although she's probably too old for it now."

"No, she's still in a cot, but goodness only knows how long that is going to last," I tell her.

"Theo could stay in Harry's room," my mom adds.

I think about these rooms being empty, waiting for me during all this time. Them loving me from afar when I'd stop letting them do it in a closer way. They never giving up on me, not like Theo's dad did.

"If you wanted to come up sometime, you could spend the day with the kids. Go to the park or something."

"I'd love that," Mom says seriously.

"Then maybe we can all come here for a weekend sometime soon," I say. Sherlock grins widely at this. He was rooting for my parents the whole time.

My mom pulls me into one of those hopping bouncing hugs that she has. It occurs to me how much I missed this.

"The boy band posters are still one the wall," my dad says.

"No," I say in horror, "I was sure I took those down when I left for college."

"I never deduced boy band posters," Sherlock says grinning at me. "I understand the primary appeal of these bands is sexual. I certainly never found the bands appealing in any way, so I believe it."

"The boy band obsession was part of my figuring myself out, yes," I admit.

"I can't imagine what that is like. To just look at posters of strangers you don't even know anything about, and feel something."

I wonder if he just meant to out himself in front of my parents.

"Boy bands not really your thing?" My dad asks.

"Ah…no. I'm demisexual actually. It's on the asexual spectrum, so I don't really feel a lot of sexual attraction. Certainly not toward strangers," Sherlock has clearly been practicing how to abbreviate that.

"I'm sorry to hear that," My mother says awkwardly.

Sherlock smirks, "It's nothing to be sorry about. Freed up a lot of my time. I could have been chasing men my whole life. But I focused on my work until I my friendship for John turned into love. Although, he is a bit of a distraction to be honest."

"I hope so," I say with raised eyebrows.

"And I never would have wanted kids if not for him, and the kids are definitely a distraction!" he says teasing now.

"Well, you'll have a bit more free time when Theo goes back to school soon."

"No," he says firmly.

I'm too taken aback to speak for a few beats, "No, our son isn't going back to school?" I ask in shock.

"No," he repeats.

I shake my head, trying to turn it into a joke, "I guess we have something to talk about on the ride home."

-0-

I give my parents giving each of them one last hug, "Thank you for everything." It's a substitute for I love you, and I think it will be a pretty temporary substitute.

I let Sherlock have his silence for ten or so miles down the road, and then I ask, "Do you really think our twelve-year-old is just going to drop out of school?"

"Do you really think we're just going to send away our son, right when we've just met them for the first time?"

Oh, of course that would be what he was thinking, "I wasn't suggesting that we send him to a boarding school."

Sherlocks jaw relaxes, "I still don't like the idea. Usually when a child enters a family they have years before they leave during the day."

"Usually the children aren't twelve when they enter the family though," I point out.

"They were not nice to him in school," Sherlock mutters.

"We'll find him another school."

"My parents found me six different schools. People weren't nice to me at any of them," he says.

I try to think about how to phrase my comment delicately.

"You're thinking it wasn't because I was gay, and you're right. That's perhaps the least weird, strange, or different thing about me. That doesn't mean it wouldn't have been enough to tease me about if it was all there was. It's different for you, you can pass for straight."

"Not really. Everyone has been convinced that you and I were dating from the moment that we met, and during my school days I used to wear t-shirts with boy bands on them. My sexuality has never really been a secret. Besides, Harry could definitely never pass, and she wasn't teased either."

"Maybe we should start with your school then," he says bitterly.

"Bit of a commute, that. We'll look into things. Do our research," I try to assure him.

"It's the middle of the term."

"I know, but we can't just leave him out of school. He's probably been out of school for a while anyway, hasn't he?"

"He's been out for the better part of a year, and he was frequently truant for a few months before that."

"I suppose it wasn't really a priority when he was living on the street."

"He stopped going before that. He was only seven weeks on the street."

I'm a little surprised by that. He talked about like it was a huge part of his life. "That's good. I'm glad that it wasn't longer."

"Seven weeks is a long time to be alone when you are that young," Sherlock says seriously glaring at me like I'm an idiot.

"I know." A new thought occurs to me, "If he was already not going to school before he was homeless we might have a little bit of a problem getting him back to school."

"More than a bit," Sherlock replies.

"You've discussed it with him?" I ask in surprise. I hadn't even thought about school until this morning.

"No. I want him to go back much less than he does. The first school day when he was with me he tried to hide."

"Really?"

"I told him how I wanted him to go to school less than he did," Sherlock grins.

"Great, so I get to be the bad guy."

There is silence in the car for a long moment. Then Sherlock says, "I haven't been letting him waste his time. He's been expanding his deductive powers, reading more widely than ever before. Did you know that he never memorized his times tables? I started solving that problem the first day. And his writing lacked any sort of structure. Did you know that no one had ever explained to him the proper way to write an introduction to an essay? And I thought that your writing was bad."

"Maybe we should look into home schooling then. I will insist you use some sort of a curriculum though, because goodness only knows you are much to random to be trusted to teach him systematically. I also think that we'd have to set up some way for him to socialize with people his own age. I don't want him to fear people forever, people are not all bad after all," I observe.

Sherlock grins, "Thank God! I couldn't imagine sending him off for hours a day!"

The words stab me deep in my heart, "Sherlock, I leave my kids for hours every day."

"It's not the same," he says.

"It is. And I don't even feel that bad about it. I love my kids. Once in a while I miss them when they are not around, but most of the time I'm rather fine with it. That makes me a bad person doesn't it?"

"Not at all. It make you normal. We've established that I am far from normal."

"Right, you're better than me. Better than most people. High above us all," I say quoting the words he used to describe his sister. It might be true that his sister was higher above the rest of us than he is, but Sherlock is high above us all as well.

He snorts a little when I say that he is better than me. "John, you are…amazing. It takes me all day to do the sort of fathering that you can get done in the hours between tea and supper."

"It's kind of you to say," I murmer.

There is another long pause in the conversation, and I reach forward to put music on before Sherlock's voice stops me.

"You never really thought about the idea of boarding school for the kids did you?"

"I don't think it's right for them, no," I mutter.

"Not for Theo, no. He's just come into our lives, and sending him away would destroy him. It might be different for Rosie, though. She's had you since the beginning, and me for as long as she can remember."

I had never considered that this would be a discussion, but I should have. I knew of course that Sherlock was a product of the public school system. Or at least had made the deduction.

"I set aside the money for her to go the very best school, since she was born," he adds. That thought touches me. The idea of him setting aside money for Rosie before she was his daughter.

"I still don't know if I want to send her away that young," I whisper.

"Well, we'll spend it on the best school near us, and colleges for both of them, and they'll be enough left over for computers and clothes, and…whatever they need."

"We'll have to be careful not to spoil them," I warn.

"I think that Theo needs a phone," he declares.

"He's twelve which is too young. But you already knew that I was going to say that, that's why you brought it up right after I refused to let you send them to school."

He pouts.

"Maybe we'll use it as a reward for him following through with socializing with other kids," I concede.

"That's what he wants the phone for," Sherlock says dryly.


	24. An empty bed

I always wake up in the middle of the night. It's a family trait, really. Many times as a child our family meet for midnight feast in the kitchen or chats in the living room.

Sherlock only sleeps four or five hours a night, but when he's asleep, he's really asleep.

If I'm not in the room with Rosie when I wake up I go check on her, and now there are not just one flight of stairs to contend with, but two. Theo might be older than Rosie, but he needs attention just as much.

My heart stops when the room is empty.

"Theo?" I say throwing open the wardrobe, and looking underneath the bed, the only two places in the bedroom where he could hide. It occurs to me that this bedroom is a bit bare, and I should probably let Sherlock spoil him a bit more than I am right now.

I didn't check the kitchen before coming up, I might have just missed him.

I check Rosie's room again on the way, because I don't want to have to run back up here.

"Sherlock!" I practically shout at him as I come in the room. But, like I said, he sleeps like the dead once he goes to sleep. I grab the sheet and use it to fling him onto the floor.

"I knew you were violent John, but I thought you just used it on criminals!" he grumbles, still not fully awake.

"Theo is missing!" I tell him.

"No," he denies.

"Trust me. I've checked. I'm going to go check the with Mrs. Hudson, but he's not upstairs or here."

"Shit!" Sherlock declares fumbling for his phone.

"Mycroft?" I ask.

"Lestrad, but Mycroft will be the second one. Good idea. Then the homeless network."

"We're both going to look right? That's what I'm telling Mrs. Hudson?" I ask.

"Of course."

Mrs. Hudson answers the door in her nightgown, curlers, and an annoyed face, "What has that man of yours gotten himself into."

"Theo is missing," I explain.

"Oh God!" she exclaims.

"Check your flat, and the basement one, please. I'm reasonably sure that he can pick locks," I hand her the baby monitor, "You'll take care of Rosie?"

"Of course," she nods, "Go find him John."

Just then Sherlock runs down the stairs so quickly that he almost plows me down. "John, here is the address you go to. We're hoping he's not there. Bring your gun. I'm going to the places we hope he is. The ones that don't involve drugs or the bastard who took him the first time."

"You made the calls?" I ask.

"Yes, it's all hands-on deck. Text me when you know something."

-0-

"Your ass is way too old to be worth even a drop o' anything," a voice from my assigned alley.

"I'm not here for drugs or sex. I'm looking for my son," I say touching the gun in my pocket like Rosie does with her security blanket.

"I ain't got nobody's son here. If they are someone's son they have somewhere else to go."

"Theo Danielson," I declare.

"Shit, he ain't been here in long time," the voice says. I hear footsteps getting closer to me in the darkness. He's trying to be quiet, and in the days before I knew Sherlock I might have missed it, but I don't miss it now. "That baby face moved a lot of units."

"Thank you for your time," I say taking a few steps back.

He lunges toward me. I move to the side, and grab one of his arms. I twist it behind him, and pin him to the wall holding the hand against his back.

"Stay the fuck away from my kid," I say releasing him, and tossing him back into the shadows.

I'm not sure exactly where to go next, but there are quite a few homeless people around, so I might as well walk and look.

A message from Mycroft. Well, either that or Harry, but Mycroft is more likely tonight. Sherlock heard the irreverent sound I used for Harry on my phone once, and changed Mycroft to the same. It made me grin. It was strangely intimate. Like he had decided we were all family now, and Mycroft was my brother.

I look at the message. An address. It's only a few blocks from here. I start running in that direction. My heart pounding.

Another lip fart. I read the message as I was running. "Wearing Sherlock's coat. Asleep in cardboard box."

I've slept on the floor during war, and it was not something that I would wish on anyone, especially not a kid.

I see the coat, collar turned up, seven steps before I am able to focus on anything else. His longish black hair is the thing which I am able to focus on next. Two more steps, and I'm by his side.

I shake his shoulder hard, and he doesn't wake up. My fingers are find my place on his neck, and I'm relieved to feel a pulse. He's just as hard to wake up as Sherlock then.

"Theo!" I shout.

He blinks, and stirs.

Another fart noise from my pocket. "I'll inform everyone he's safe. You just bring him home."

Mycroft is good in an emergency, you have to give him that.

"Theo, what were you thinking?" I shout. Then I close my eyes. I can't be mad at him right now. I can wait for that later. "Let's go home."

"I can't," he whispers.

"You can always come home," I correct.

He starts to cry, and I open my arms just praying he's going to fall into them. He does. I hold him as he sobs.

"Theo, let me take you home, and we're going to make whatever is wrong right. It's going to be okay, I know it."

"John, I don't deserve to come home."

"Sweetie, there is nothing you could say that would make me want to leave you here," I say pulling away so that he can see how serious my face is.

"I tried to stop. I didn't do it since I moved in with you. I swear. Not until today," he says seriously.

I pull his arm toward me, and try to roll up the oversized coat so I can count the tract marks.

"Not drugs," he says.

"Just tell me."

He leans against the wall of the alley, his face hidden in the darkness, "I touched myself," he barely whispers.

I burst into laugher, "There is nothing wrong in that, kid. It's normal. So very normal. You ran away, because you thought I'd be mad?"

"Sin," he mutters.

"Well, we'll have to deal with the sense of guilt that you've got there. I'm assuming that came from your family?"

"Does it matter if I was thinking about a boy? One who is straight for sure?" he asks.

"No," I say shooting a smile in his direction. "Still normal."

"I'm sorry I worried you," he says with a voice full of shame again. "How did you know I was missing already, anyway?"

"I check on my children in the middle of the night," I say standing up and extending my hand to him.

He takes it, and I pull him into a standing position.

"I'm sorry I stole Sherlock's coat."

"I'm sure he'll be glad that you had something warm around you," I tell him.

We start walking toward the tube station. I don't like walking around this late with a small kid, and I hate the thought of him having walked here alone. Having slept out here alone. He was sleeping so deep he never could have defended himself from anything.

"Will Sherlock be mad at me?"

"He's worried, that's all," I admit.

Just then a taxi going far over the speed limit squeals to a stop, and Sherlock pops out. "You've examined him John? Is he injured?"

"He's fine," I assure him.

And then Sherlock's encased him in a tight hug. "I'm sorry, Theo, I don't know what I did wrong, but you'll tell me, and then I will make sure never to do it again."

"You didn't do anything," Theo says slowly confused by Sherlock.

"Well, I know it wasn't John. He's a very good father. I'm hopeless at anything which involves being nice to people. But I can learn. You can make me a list. John did that when we stared dating, and I think it helped. You can just list all the things you need from a father, and then I'll be that."

"Sherlock, it's nothing that you did. Theo thought he did something we couldn't forgive."

"Well that's ridiculous! If he committed murder I would help him cover it up. I think I would be quite good at that. I'm surprised no one has requested me to help them do it before."

"Oh they probably have, I set up a program to delete those from the website before you could read them. Didn't want to temp you. Let's get in the taxi, and go home," I say wearily.


	25. Home

"You want us to go?" I ask when we've got Theo back in bed, still wrapped up in Sherlock's coat though neither of us are going to mention it.

He shakes his head, and I let out a breath that I didn't even know I was holding. I really don't want to leave the room right then. "Can you do the thing with my hair?"

I kneel down next to him, and begin slowly swiping his hair.

"Theo, don't leave again, okay?" Sherlock says sounding so small, so young.

"I don't understand this," Theo says. "I don't understand how you guys keep being nice to me. Because I don't understand it I don't believe it."

"I ever tell you about the time Sherlock pretended to be dead?" I ask.

Theo glances at Sherlock.

"He jumped off a building in front of me. Then he didn't tell me, for two whole years. He just let me grieve for him!" I exclaim.

"I had very good reasons. I was saving his life."

"He was, but it still hurt," I agree.

"My point is I forgave him. This was way back before we'd become romantic."

"He punched me before he forgave me," Sherlock observes.

"I did, but you're not in any danger of that, kiddo. You're part of our family now, and that's forever," I tell him.

"We'd go to the end of the world to find you if you needed it," Sherlock promises.

"You both have sisters right?" Theo asks.

"Ah, yeah," I say sitting back, and forgetting about the hair for a second.

"You can meet Harry as soon as she has another relatively dry spell. She's too drunk to be around right now," Sherlock defends.

"So, if I started on drugs…" Theo says.

"No kid, you don't understand. You not meeting my sister is about us choosing children over her. I still see her, actually, just not with you. When she was little I fell out with our parents, because I choose her."

"What about Sherlock's sister. I know he goes to see her sometimes, but I've never met her."

I rock back on my heals, "Euros is in jail, honey. She killed people. People Sherlock loved," I begin.

"She almost killed John," Sherlock added.

"And he still visits her. So, that just proves my point," I conclude.

Theo pauses thoughtfully for a long time before he asks, "Can I meet her?"

"I don't know that that's a good idea," I say diplomatically at the same time that Sherlock practically shouts, "No!"

"What's the big deal? She's in jail isn't she?"

"The time she tried to kill me we went to visit her in jail. Not that we think that's going to happen again, but Sherlock's sister has all kinds of special powers. We don't want to risk you being in the same room as her."

"What about a phone call then?" he asks.

Sherlock and Theo are both looking at me with an identical set of pleading eyes. "We'll think about it, with Sherlock with her on one end, and me with you on the other. But you have to understand that if we do this she is going to say something that will hurt you. It's almost a promise. I'd rather you didn't put yourself through that."

He ponders, "I think learning to deal with people who say something that hurts me is something that I'm going to have to learn to do."

That reminds me the original reason that I thought he took off, "You didn't do this because of the home-schooled social group we were making you go to tomorrow."

He doesn't answer for a long time, looking down. When he finally speaks he says, "That's why I choose tonight, but it's not the reason that it happened."

"Well, you certainly don't have to go now!" Sherlock explains.

"Do we really want to reward the behavior of running away?" I ask.

"He's scared," Sherlock defends.

"Yep, and both of us are going to be right there with him in a park. If it gets to be too much he can come over and hang out with us for a little bit. No one is going to say anything mean to him, and if they do we'll be right there to fix it. He is not going to live in fear," I demand.

"What if they don't say something? What if they just look something?" he asks.

"If you are not comfortable we will do something to make sure you are comfortable. We are going to stay the whole hour though. Deal?"

He considers for a long time before at least he answers, "An hour is not that long."

Sherlock grins at him, kneeling down, and slowly swiping the hair from his face. He's very awkward at it, but it's one of the most beautiful things that I've ever seen.

"I'll tell you another story about how this family is forever once you are in it. I'll tell you the story of how Sherlock and I started dating," I begin.

"You told me that we were never going to tell that story," Sherlock objects.

"Special circumstances, but this doesn't give you permission to tell this story to just anyone," I warn.

Sherlock frowns. He's come a long ways in the eleven months we've been dating since he knows that he doesn't exactly come off looking good in this story. "I did start by offering him tea, and inviting him to dinner."

"He'd been inviting me to dinner since we met, and I thought the tea was poisoned," I defend.

"I would also like to mention that I was high when this happened. This is a good reason not to use drugs," Sherlock points out.

"I thought that was over for a long time for you," Theo says.

"The worst of my problems, the kind that left me homeless happened when I was a teenager, yes. Then I fought with my addition, and I had a lot of good years. Really good years. I slipped a few times in the past years."

"Once when I got married, once when Mary died to save his life, and once when he thought I rejected him," I said gently taking his hand in mine.

"I went to my sister, high, and sad. I made a bad choice, and if I hadn't made the bad choice to use drugs I wouldn't have made that mistake," he says pounding home the moral of his story, "And I set up a scavenger hunt, or a treasure hunt."

"He wiped his memory so he couldn't remember it. Then we did it together. Sometimes he had to do things like solve murder mysteries. Other times we did things like kiss. The whole time I thought his murderous sister had my daughter."

"What? No!" Theo says looking at Sherlock in horror.

"I'm so sorry John," Sherlock says moving the same move of whipping hair from my head as he had been using on our son.

"I know you are. You didn't know how crazy what you were doing was. I can't imagine you pulling something like that now. You've grown up so much in the past year."

"I really have," he says grinning at the compliment despite himself.

"It was the most terrifying thing that has ever happened to me," I say giving Theo's leg a tap with the next words, "Although tonight is a good runner up. I forgave Sherlock that. I forgave him for making our first kiss the result of a kidnapping demand. If I can forgive all of that you can rest assured that I can forgive literally anything."

Theo leans back relaxing.

"Now you really need to get some sleep. Do you want us to stay up here until you fall asleep?" I ask.

"I'm fine," Theo says.

"And you are not planning on going anywhere, right?" Sherlock asks in a pointed way that shows how deeply he was affected by the events of tonight.

"Not until social group tomorrow," Theo demands.

"Goodnight kiddo," I say resisting the urge to kiss his forehead. It's probably to early for that particular sign of physical expression.

Sherlock has no such qualms, and he kisses the boy's hairline before standing up. Then he takes my hand as the two of us walk out of the room.

"You check on them every night?" Sherlock asks on the stairs.

I nod.

"You never told me."

"I didn't need to tell you. I didn't do it, because I actually thought one of their beds was going to be empty. I did it, because I happened to be awake."

"You get up in the middle of the night a lot?" he asks softly.

"Most nights," I admit even though I really don't want to hurt his feelings.

"You should have told me."

"It's not a big deal. Before I had children I just rolled over, and went back to sleep."

"I should know everything about you," he objects.

"You used to find the fact that you didn't know everything about me exciting," I remind him as we make the way back into our bedroom.

"That was earlier. Now we've been dating for almost a year. We've known each other for five years now. I should be an expert on John."

I smile, giving him a peek on the cheek, "I don't think anyone ever becomes an expert on each other. Humans are complex."

"I could spend my whole life studying you, and I would still know nothing," he says in a tone of voice that I can't read.

"Not good?" I ask using his common phrase.

"I don't know," he says carefully opening the bedroom door. "I know that the way things started between us. It was certainly not good. It was not good, and it was my fault that it wasn't."

"Sherlock, I was serious when I said that I'd forgiven you for all of that. It's over, and done with."

"I know, and you said that you would forgive me for anything. You said that you would never leave me."

"I mean it," I say grinning at him.

"I don't like it," he says shaking his head.

"You don't like unconditional love?" I say with a chuckle. He can't be serious, can he?

"I need to know that you would leave me if you needed to. I think sometimes…what we have borders on my abusing you. I don't want you to be trapped into this."

My heart swells up within me, "Sherlock. I have never considered what we had abuse. I love you, with my whole heart. You make me so happy. You won't hurt me."

"I might. I might hurt you by mistake," he declares.

"Losing you would hurt me far more than anything you could do to me. Trust me, I've been through it before."

"I'm sorry," he says. Then his face brightens, "You don't know that I checked on you then, do you?"

"What?" I exclaim.

"I used to check on you when you were sleeping, when I was dead. You threw me for a bit of a loop when you moved. It took me weeks to find your new place. I had to stop when you started living with Mary. She was not as deep of a sleeper as you were."


	26. I rather think so

I'm talking to other dads when suddenly Theo runs up. I don't like the fact that my first thought is regret that I don't have an illegal gun in my pocket. If someone hurt my child they are going to have to pay for it.

I stand up wondering if I should comfort whoever hurt him first, or take him home and comfort him.

"James asked if I can go to his house tomorrow," Theo says.

It takes a second for me to turn the glare that have fixed on him into a smile.

"Yes, of course," I say.

"You seam surprised your boy made a friend," the dad next to me says as I sit down.

"Only because he was pretty sure that he wouldn't. I had to bribe him to come here in fact," I admit.

The man chuckles, "I have to bribe mine to do algebra. The socializing comes pretty easy to him.

I stare beyond to where Theo is laughing with the other boy as they play hackey sack badly. I wonder if the boy knows. I really hope it is not just going to result in a slower rejection of my son.

"I can understand how in some places they might not accept Theo," the man beside me says, "I hope you aren't worried that it will happen here."

Look up in surprise at that. It turns out that Sherlock is not the only person capable of reading minds. "I just don't think he could take much more rejection."

"No one batted an eye at two fathers brining an adopted son in. None of these kids will bat an eye at his sexuality either," the man says softly.

"For that I am more grateful than you'll ever know," I admit.

"Oh, a homeschool group is little more than the island of misfit toys," the man says laughing.

"That is the perfect description of my family!" I exclaim with a smile.

I look back to where Theo is staring at James for a second too long, and my stomach sinks. Okay, so he's not going to be rejected for friendship that's true, but…well, he did already tell me he had a crush on a straight boy didn't he? So at least it's not unfamiliar territory.

-0-

I stare at the intercom. Mary used to be on the other side of that. I would just press the button, and I would hear her voice. I know it hasn't been her on the other end of the intercom for two years now, but it is still hard to press that button sometimes.

The sound of two footsteps and an umbrella tapping on the floor.

Well, at least I won't have to press that damned button, "Mycroft come in."

"Sorry to disturb you at work," he says pushing the door open.

"Sherlock okay?" I ask standing quickly. Generally Mycroft only shows up unexpected when there is something horribly wrong with his brother, or at least when he thinks there is something terribly wrong with his brother.

"Yes, quite well. I was pleased to hear about your reservation at Dartmore," he continues.

I blink at him, resisting the urge to ask how he knew that. He enjoys telling about his spying action just as much as Sherlock loves explaining how he solved a crime. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that secret from Sherlock. It's a surprise."

"Are you sure that's for the best?" Mycroft says in shock and surprise.

"I know he said he didn't want it before, but he's hinted that he did. Anyway, he could always say no."

"He might John," Mycroft says, and his eyes are as soft when he looks at me as they are when he looks at his brother. I'm touched by the softness of his eyes.

"If he does I'll survive it. I was okay when I thought the answer was no."

"I should have thought to go to you first, after all you are the medical man."

"Medical? What does that have to do with anything?" I ask confused.

He blinks at me. "Mitochondrial replacement theory involves a medical procedure."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about. I'm taking Sherlock to Dartmore to propose."

His face is covered in disappointment, "Well, in that case I'm going to give you the same offer that I gave Sherlock. In the very least you can decide whether or not you want to bring it up with him. He clearly chose not to bring it up with you. Have you heard of three parent children?" he asks leaning on his umbrella. That always has the effect of unsettling me now that I know the umbrella contains not only a gun, but also a sword.

"Yes, it's a way of allowing people with genetic disorders to have healthy children using donor eggs emptied of the nucleus."

"This technique can also be used to help same sex couples have children that are genetically connected to them."

"Bull shit," I say.

He chuckles, "I know John, it's a bit hard to believe. You've been inside of Basketville. You know that not everything that goes on there is public knowledge. There have only been a few children born this way. That's why my brother rejected the idea. He thought there was too much risk to the child."

"Why are you tempting me with this then? You think that I'm so selfish I would bring a sick kid into the world?"

"I said Sherlock believes that it was too risky. I didn't say it was. There have been no negative health effects so far."

"Of course, the children born this way could not be very old. Dolly the sheep didn't have any health problems until she reached middle aged."

"This isn't cloning John."

"No, but it is messing with genetics."

"I suggest you do your own research. You are after all far more familiar with medical matters than my brother is. I would not suggest something that would harm a future nephew or niece of mine," he says stoically.

You can't be around Sherlock Holmes for years without absorbing at least a bit of his methods. "It's important to you that Sherlock has genetic offspring."

"He's the most likely of the Holmes children to do it, yes? I'd rather not my family line go extinct, is there anything particularly unique in that?"

"You could have children yourself, you know," I point out.

He chuckles, "Alicia is a bit beyond that now, she's has a grandchild, you know."

"Alicia?" I say confused, and then suddenly realizing, "Alicia Smallwood?" he nods, "You are dating Lady Alicia Smallwood?" I try to keep he shock out of my voice, but I know that I have utterly failed at that feat.

Mycroft chuckles again, "He didn't tell you that either? I'll keep that in mind in the future. I'll make sure to give all of my information directly to you since he can't be trusted to pass anything on."

"You could still have genetic offspring, even if they weren't hers," I point out again.

"I suppose I could, of course," he says deliberately, "But you know that genetics are less than half a child. What good would it be to bring a child of mine into the world, and then mar it's genes by being raised by someone so inadequate as me? No, it would be much better off if it was Sherlock's child raised by the two of you. To be sure, it would be less genetically related to me that way, but it would be a better person."

I was so touched by his words it took me a few tries before I was able to form a sentence, "That's possibly very, very sweet." Another deduction floats into my mind, "You campaigned for siblings didn't you?"

He smiles at me like I do to Rosie when she speaks better than you'd expect for her hate, "Quite so."

"Well, I suppose the world owes you something then…for Sherlock Holmes walking the Earth."

"Whatever good I did with that is undone by Euros," he mutters with his eyes going dark in a second.

"No, Sherlock has saved far more people's lives than Euros has taken."

"Thank you for that, even if it is not strictly rational. I could have stopped begging for siblings after Sherlock."

"You know why Sherlock is resistant to the idea having a genetic child, don't you?"

"I know it has to do with Euros. That's why I don't push. But I will appeal."

"I promise to research, and then talk to your brother. That's all that I will promise," I inform him.

"That's good. I'll get you some research that isn't publicly available."

"Thank you Mycroft," I say.

He nods, stands up, swings his umbrella, and tuns to leave the room. He turns back looking at me confused, "Marriage? Really?"

"Is that really stranger than deciding to have a secret science fiction baby together?" I volley back.

"For my brother? I rather think so."

"We'll have to do dinner sometime, Mycroft. With Lady Smallwood," I just can't quite get myself to call her Alicia even though he has several times.

He chuckles again, "You actually believe you can convince my brother to do that, don't you?"


	27. His Holy Longcoat

The closer we get to Dartmore the more glum and grumpy Sherlock gets. Finally he bursts out, "This is not a surprise it's an ambush! But it won't work John! You can't force me to have a baby with you!"

"That's not what we're doing here," I tell him.

He glares at me suspiciously.

"You should have told me about the chance at a child though. How long ago did Mycroft tell you?"

"It didn't matter, because we are not going to do it!"

"We are going to discuss this, Sherlock, but not today. I'm still researching. When I have the facts we'll talk until we come to something we both agree with. I'm not going to try to force you to do anything. You should know me better than that."

"So then why are we going here?"

"It's our anniversary, Sherlock, people do that you know? Go away for their anniversaries."

"We don't have an anniversary. You have to be married to have an anniversary. We might as well get married if we're going to have an anniversary anyway."

I chuckle, "Okay, it doesn't have to be for an anniversary then. We're going to have a weekend away. Couples do that sort of thing you know. Most people enjoy it."

"What do we need time away from? I like our life. I like our kids. I don't want to escape from them."

I take a long breath and try to think of how to explain it to him, "I like our life too. I like it a bit more when I get a break from it every now and again. I want to spend a weekend just thinking about you. No attention divided by other people, by jobs, and sinks full of dishes."

"That's fair," he says, "You do a lot more of the jobs and sinks full of dishes than I do, and I really do like to be the center of your attention."

I giggle at that.

"Why Dartmore?" he asks after another long period of silence.

I pause not sure how he'll take the truth. You never can tell with Sherlock. I decide to go for it anyway, "It was the first time you seamed human to me."

"I would have thought that locking you in a lab and drugging you would have made me seem more monstrous to you."

"You never seemed liked a monster Sherlock. It is not that you were subhuman, but rather that you were superhuman. So far above us that you could never have anything to do with us mortals. Then you were afraid. And then you called me your friend. And I realized that you were just human. That you could really be my friend."

"John, you were always capable of much greater depths of friendship and feeling that I was. If either one of us is above the other it is you."

"Of course, you might not really be human. After all humans do not rise form the dead," I tease him.

"I explained to you that I did not rise form the dead. It was an illusion, and a magic trick.

"You sacrificed yourself for others. Rather godlike, really," I tease.

"Any religion with me as it's god is in serious trouble," he retorts.

"The revered church of his holy longcoat," I retort.

"I should have bought you a present, I suppose," he observes. "I didn't know the rule about anniversaries for unmarried people. I'll have to give you some money."

"You don't have to give me a present."

"Nonsense, you got me an entire trip. I'll get you something of equal value."

"It's not about the money, Sherlock. It's about the thought."

"So, it doesn't count, because you had to remind me?" he says looking hurt.

"Sherlock, I am very happy with you. Everything about our relationship is perfect. If I felt like I needed flowers and chocolates I'd be with someone else. I'm doing these things for you, because I want to. Because it makes me happy, and I thought it would make you happy."

"You want flowers? I thought only women wanted flowers."

"I don't need flowers, Sherlock. That was the point of what I said."

"Candy makes sense. I've seen you eat candy. I have a mental record of your favorite choices. I could do candy. Although, I am going to have to buy a lot of jelly bellies to equal the price of a weekend at Dartmore."

I sigh, "Sherlock, please don't buy me insane amounts of jelly bellies." I'm fairly sure this is a lost cause, but I'm going to try.

"You need to give me an alternative, John. Perhaps I could purchase you jumpers. You like jumpers," he brightens, "And I like you in jumpers. Does that work? It's something that both of us like so I did it?" he asks hopefully looking at me.

"Yes Sherlock, you picked the perfect present, well done."

He grins to himself. "I won't get you one with horrid geometric patterns on it though. Something solid colored," he nods.

I look down at the geometric pattern on my jumper. I can't propose in this now. What did I pack? Something solid colored I hope.

"Don't worry. I packed some of your clothes in my bag," he says.

I really hope he wasn't able to deduce all the thoughts that were in my head. Just the obvious one where I looked down.

"See, you can be thoughtful without sending a gift," I say.

"Really, John. You think it shows carrying when I tell you that your clothes are inadequate, and you think that terrorizing you as part of an experiment is an important milestone in our relationship. You are lucky that you found me instead of a mass murder to be with."

"I am lucky to have found you," I reply.

He shoots me a huge grin, and goes back to staring at the road in front of the car for a few seconds before dramatically saying, "Bored!"

-0-

It's still there. The heart by the fireplace. We sit in the same places we did years ago. Arm chairs by the fire. Almost like we were at home.

Sherlock would not mind if we were at home. He's not impressed by a change in location. I should have proposed to him with a cadaver. He would have loved that.

I take a ship of my tea.

I should say it then. There is nothing stopping me. There has also been nothing stopping me for the last half hour either, and that hasn't meant that it happened.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asks looking at me concerned.

Of course, he would have noticed something was up. I put the tea cup down in its saucer. "Sherlock, this year that we have been together has been one of the best years of my life…" I begin.

"Stop!" Sherlock commands with ferocity that surprises me.

I stare at him in shock for a long time, trying to find some words. Something that will make the idea of him not marrying me not hurt him so much.

"Good," he nods, "Good, you don't finish your thought, and we stay together."

My stomach hurts. I knew that he might say no, but I didn't know that our relationship was at risk. I should just leave it, but I can't. I just can't leave it like this forever. "I don't understand…I thought you told me you were open to the idea of marriage."

He blinks, "Marriage?"

"If you changed your mind, why does that mean that we can't be together. I told you that I was okay with being together without marriage. Can't we go back to that?" I plead.

"You were trying to propose?" He says flopping back in the chair boneless, "I thought you were breaking up with me!"

"God no!" I exclaim looking at him in nervous anticipation.

"Well, get on with it then," he commands with a cocky smile.

Why exactly did I want to be the one to propose to him again? Right, I didn't want it to end up like the mock kidnapping which got us together or the excessively large coming out party.

"You have been the best part of my life for a really long time. I can't imagine life without you. Would you do me the honor of marrying me?" I ask.

"Where is the ring?" he asks.

"You can't answer me without seeing jewelry?" I ask glaring at him.

"You're supposed to give me a ring," he responds in the voice he uses when he thinks that I'm being dense.

"I don't have a ring."

"You can't propose without a ring, John. Honestly, you think you'd never done this before."

"I wasn't sure you'd want a ring. I'm not sure how this works when both the people are male."

"You gave Mary a ring. I want one too," he practically pouts.

"Okay, I'll get you a ring. Can you answer my question now?" I say trying to keep my panic out of my voice.

"I'll answer you when you propose to me properly," he says firmly.

God, I hate that man. Or love him. Sometimes it feels like it's the same thing.

"You'll be okay if I don't wear an engagement ring, only a wedding one?" I ask.

"Why would you wear an engagement ring?" he asks sounding puzzled.

It's all so easy for him. He knows who he is, and how he fits in all of this. It's not so easy for me, a barely bisexual man, to figure out how all of this works. How everything is going to fit together.

"Do you want to go back to London? You could buy me a ring, and then we could have our anniversary back in our own bed," he asks.

"You aren't enjoying tonight?" I ask.

"There is no mystery this time," he pouts.

"And you can't just be interested in my tonight?" I ask.

"I don't know, you planning on committing any crimes?" he asks hopefully.

"No."

He shrugs, "Well, let's get onto the sex part of it then."


	28. Sacrifice

"I know what you really want for our anniversary," Sherlock whispers in my ear to wake me up. His hands are all over me, and I grin at the contact. Yeah, I'll take this over a jumper.

There is kissing though. Not on my mouth, which I'm familiar with, but on my neck, my ears. Then slowly down my chest. I'm not used to the feeling of his lips upon me.

Kisses on my stomach as he slips a condom on me.

Then.

Jesus.

He's kissing my cock.

Some thought is trying to push through the passion filled brain. There is something that I need to remember.

Right, Sherlock hates oral. He's afraid of it.

My hand on his forehead pushes him away, "Stop," I mutter.

"I'm sorry I'm so bad at it. Tell me what to do," he pleas still between my legs. His breath on my cock feeling amazing.

I twist around, and pull him up until the two of us are face to face. "You were doing a good job Sherlock, I just wanted to talk about why you're doing it."

"You want to marry me," he says as if I'm particularly dense.

"I don't want a reward for proposing, Sherlock," I say.

He looks crestfallen, "Not a reward."

I stroke his curls, waiting for him to explain. He lets me sooth him for a little longer before he sits up, and turns away form me, "Female prostitutes only."

My mind takes ridiculously long to respond to that, and even then it's only, "What?"

"I would be far more uncomfortable with a male," he responds.

"Well, that surprises me," I admit, "But not nearly as much as the fact that you want a prostitute. I might need you to explain demisexuality to me again. Slowly."

He shoots me a look full of derision and pain over his shoulder, "She won't be for me John!"

"Sherlock, I don't want a hooker," I say softly.

"You want to marry me John!" he explains.

"Yes, I want to marry you, and be with you. Not anyone else," I repeat sitting up so that I can wrap myself around him.

"You'll probably get attached to them, even if we pay them. Different one every time then. I think I can live with that," Sherlock insists stoically.

"How about you believe me when I say that I don't want anyone else," I suggest.

"If you marry me John, you are going to go the rest of your life without receiving oral sex."

"I hasn't really thought about it in quite those terms," I admit.

He nods.

"I'm fine with that. It's certainly a lot better than letting my boyfriend rape himself or being with someone besides the person I love."

"You giving up a sex act you enjoy has to be as difficult as me doing one I don't enjoy," he insists.

"Nope," I say firmly.

"You can't want to give it up forever," Sherlock repeats.

"You are really underestimating the things I would give up to be with you, Sherlock. Besides, you gave up thumbs in the microwave, and drugging our family. This is a small sacrifice by comparison."

He grins, "It's possible I was overestimating the difference between alosexuals and asexuals. It's would be easier to predict people's behavior if I was normal myself."

I gaff at him, "Sherlock, you predict people's behavior so well because you are so very far away from normal."

"Now come on, snuggle me to sleep," I command pulling him onto the bed with me.

"Sex is more or less expected on an anniversary isn't it? There are lots of sexual acts we find mutually beneficial."

"Just hold me Sherlock. That's the best part between us. It's your favorite part."

He wraps his long limbs around me in one of the eighteen snuggling positions we've assumed since the beginning of relationship. I'm thinking of writing a paper about the various benefits of each of them. The only reason I haven't, is because I fear that Sherlock would publish it even if I told him not to.

I have almost fallen back into asleep when I hear the words, "We'll talk about the baby soon, John. I owe you a conversation."

-0-

"How did the night away go, boys?" Mrs. Hudson asks as we enter 221B the next morning. The kids are still at the breakfast table even though Rosie is clearly more interested in turning food into art, and Theo is done eating.

"John botched a proposal to me, and then refused to have sex with me," Sherlock says pushing past her to drop off our luggage in the bedroom.

Theo and Mrs. Hudson are staring at me in horror. After a beat Mrs. Hudson turns on the kettle, and Theo stands up to hug me.

"You guys, it's fine. He just wants a ring, and…the other thing was choosing sweetness. He was fine! We are fine!" I insist.

"Mary got a ring. I get a ring," Sherlock repeats returning to the room.

"I will get you a ring, Sherlock. Can we just consider ourselves engaged until then?"

"That's not how it works," he says shaking his head.

"Can you tell them that you enjoyed the trip?" I insist.

"Why do you want me to lie?" Sherlock asks.

"Are you guys separating?" Theo asks Sherlock.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sherlock insists.

"I explained to John that I prefer the food and company in London to that out of town. That doesn't mean I would dissolve our romantic relationship, because he enjoys taking me to the country one night a year," Sherlock continues.

"I'm so glad we decided how often night away would be. Was I in the room when this happened?" I ask sarcastically.

"Dear," Mrs. Hudson says taking him by the arm, "Generally when someone refuses a proposal its because they don't love someone."

"It wasn't a proposal," Sherlock says exasperated, "He didn't have a ring!"

"Will you come with me to pick out a ring?" I ask him.

"You still don't know how to do this. I'll write you some rules," he says turning the rules still posted on the fridge over. He writes on there, "1. Get a ring before you propose. 2. Don't make babies with my brother."

"That's also not anything like what it sounds like," I inform the room. "Sherlock, I don't have any idea what kind of ring to buy a man."

"You should have let me do the proposing John. You are woefully ignorant about some matters."

"Educate me," I say.

He gives me a kiss.

"Mrs. Hudson, you mind watching the children for a little longer?" he asks.

"Of course not, go boys! Make it official!" she declares taking a flannel to begin the unenviable job of cleaning Rosie's hands.


	29. Fantastic!

"This one?" I ask holding up what feels like the hundredth choice. I am trying really hard not act exasperated with his desire to find the best one, but I'm sure he can see through whatever act I'm putting on.

He turns it over slowly in his hand. "Yes, this one."

I manage to turn the "Thank goodness!" I mean to say into a slightly more appropriate, "Wonderful!"

"Of course, it will need to be engraved," he adds.

"Right," I say like I did actually know that.

"You have to pick the words. I mean, you've got to do at least part of this, John," he prompts.

I stare at him pondering for a while before I come up with something he'll accept, "Fantastic," I offer.

He grins, "Well done, John."

"We can do the engraving while you wait if you prefer," the lady behind the counter offers.

"So, we can take it home today?" I ask excitedly.

She nods disappearing into the back room.

"John, I would be willing to have another child with you. I would just prefer that we had another older one, like Theo."

"I'm open to that as well. I don't think that four children would be too many. I just really want one of our children to be one that has your genes in it."

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock pouts.

"It's not. You're one of the most amazing people that the world has ever seen, and it would be a waste not to carry on those genes."

"I don't have good genes, John. I have a history of addiction. Out of the three of us siblings all three have been diagnosed with mental illness, and all three have committed murder."

"Mycroft?" I ask in surprise.

"Really? I tell you that the man has started wars, and…"

"But not with his bare hands, right? Has Mycroft killed anyone with his bare hands?"

"He was MI5 before he started to run the government. So, yeah, I think it is fair to say that he did."

I lean forward just in case someone at the shop has been listening. "I want our DNA to be mixed up together forever," I whisper.

"Children don't tend to live forever," he points out without passion.

"No, but the baby might grow up to have other children, and carry our DNA all missed up together for a long time."

He smirks. "Took you a while to come up with an angle I couldn't resist didn't it?"

"Not that long. I'm getting a lot better at thinking like you do."

"Your ring is ready," the man behind the counter says to us.

"I can pay, John," Sherlock offers.

"You are not paying for your own engagement ring. That's not the way things are done."

"It won't matter, because soon enough all of our money is going to be shared," he points out.

"Yes, but are you going to let me into that closet of yours?" I ask.

"The goal is to get OUT of the closet, John," he teases back.

"Seriously, Rosie is going to need her own closet one day."

"I'll buy you a wardrobe, fill it will jumpers for you, even," he says.

The man behind the counter clears his throat.

"Right, sorry," I say fishing my card out and handing it over to him. The ring is sitting on the table between us, and push the ring toward him.

"You have to propose," Sherlock says with an incredulous voice again.

"I did propose," I say exasperated.

"Again, with the ring," he insists.

"Oh, you are lucky that I love you," I say teasingly.

I put the card which is handed me back in my wallet, and then I take the ring. Dropping to my knee.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are the most brilliant, amazing, loving man that I have ever known. I cannot imagine a future which does not include you in it. I can't even imagine a future life which doesn't revolve around you. If you would do me the honor of marrying me it would make me the happiest man on Earth."

"That was a lot of sentimental nonsense," he replies.

"Can you just say yes, and kiss me, and edit the speech for clarity later on?" I ask.

"Yes," he says giving me a kiss, "The main flaw with the speech is that you don't revolve around me. I revolve around you."

"Well, that is certainly not true," I chuckle.

"You have changed my life more than I have changed yours," he objects.

"I don't think that's true, but I know I don't want to argue about it. Shall we go home now?" I ask.

"Yes," he says linking his arm with mine.

"Excuse me," a man walks in front of us. There is anger in his yes, and I know that Sherlock hasn't missed it by the way that he grips my arm with the inside of his elbow. "But it looked like you two just got engaged, back there," he continues.

"We did," Sherlock says. If ever there was a time that you should lie this would be one of them. How does he not know this? There is no way Sherlock has gotten to be as old as he is, being as odd as he is without ever running into this before. Of course, he didn't date much, and even when I was his best friend I didn't know his sexual orientation.

"Why do you faggots have to get married?" he sneers.

"Sherlock, let's just leave," I prompt.

"I'll never understand people who cannot let others be happy, but have to try to destroy it," Sherlock says with a shrug letting go of my arm so that we can walk around the man one on each side. I am ready for a swing at any point in time, but it doesn't come.

Only when we're a block away, before I finally relax a bit, "I thought you were going to antagonize him," I breath.

"Wanted to, but you told me not to," he says with a shrug.

"I'm pissed that he ruined our big day."

"That's okay, you'll just have to propose to me a couple more times," he says with his sly grin.

Is he joking? He must be joking right? I stare at him trying to make sure I'm right before I speak, and then I say, "You cock," shaking my head.

"I like it when you refer to me as a penis."

I chuckle. "How many times were you going to let me propose to you?"

"It started to feel a little mean. I had plans to get to seven or eight."

"I'm guessing you've changed your mind about a small wedding?"

"Few people, big wedding?" he asks.

"Yeah, there is no way I'll be able to marry you without a lot of drama," I tease.

"Maybe a murder?" he says cheerfully.

"Sherlock, we're not hopping for one of our closest friends to be murdered at our wedding, are we?" I prompt.

"Attempted murder?" he tries again.

"No," I say firmly, because any other answer would sound like yes to him.

"You had at attempted murder with Mary," he whines.

I grab him, and shove him against the brick wall to kiss him, "How about you stop comparing our relationship to mine with my dead wife?"

"Or you'll kiss me?" he raises his eyebrow.

"Or nothing, Sherlock, it's a request. I'll kiss you anyway. We're getting married," I say happily. Then I take him by the hand, swinging it between us in my glee as we walk.

After a few minutes of silence he returns to an old question, "John, maybe if didn't have other children I would be willing to risk it. We have other children to think of though. What if we did have a child who turned out like Euros?"

"Sherlock, I really don't think there is a lot of chance of that happening, but if it does happen…we'll deal with it. We'll take care of him or her as best we can. We'll sure as hell not let him or her hurt our other children."

"There is no guarantee of that. My sister could have just as easily chosen to kill me or Mycroft when we were children. But I'm talking about after. If Euros was my daughter…visiting wouldn't be enough John. I'd live there with her, if Euros was little. I would have done it even now if it wasn't for Rosie. So, if we have a child that needs me to live in an institution what will I do? I can't just abandon Theo and Rosie."

I feel tears behind my eyes, and I hope to God they stay there. "Sherlock, if that happened. If the worse happened. We would work something out. We would take shifts. Spent a lot of time with the child, and a lot of time with our other kids. But it's not going to happen, Sherlock."

"No, I don't think it will," he absorbs, "You've had a positive effect on me, and on Mycroft. Even if the child had difficult genes you will be his father."

"And so will you. Let's not forget the way you've helped your sister, Sherlock."

"I don't want to say yes, not right now," Sherlock says.

"Maybe, I can live with a maybe for right now," I agree.


	30. The Way He Loves Me

Theo is waiting for us in the front of the house when we pull up. "You're engaged now?"

"Yes," Sherlock says rushing out of the taxi to pick him up, and twirl him around.

"Finally!" he exclaims. "I didn't understand why you weren't already married before I met you!"

"Well, a long time ago I told John I didn't want to get married, ever. I stay foolish things sometimes," Sherlock says. "Now, you are going to have to tell me everything you did when I was gone over some tea, mm?"

"You got it sorted boys?" Mrs. Hudson asks from the top of the stairs, balancing Rosie on her good hip.

"Yes," Sherlock says holding up his hand to display the ring.

"We really should tell family before long," I remind him.

"Oh, how dreary!" Sherlock explains with a dramatic eye roll, "Can't you just post something on your blog? They all read that don't they?"

"I really hope you are kidding," I say determined to avoid taking the bait if at all possible. He's throwing Rosie in the air, and talking with Theo about why he did none of his algebra problems while we were gone. He's a good actor, I know he is. But I really think he might have meant that.

I should probably make all of the announcement calls by myself.

-0-

It's one of those mornings when it is really hard to shake off that last little bit of sleep. It clings to you for hours, through a shower, and breakfast, and conversations even. It confers on the whole thing a dreamlike sheen, and it makes you not want to do anything at all.

Sherlock woke up sort of restless and untethered, early. Between when the sun rises, and when sane people do. I snuggled down with him on the couch, because in the year that we've been together I've discovered nothing is better for settling that man down than cuddles.

"We're not going to start the process of having a child until Theo is officially adopted," Sherlock announces.

"Okay," I murmur into his shoulder blade.

"Adoption will be easier if we're married, so we shouldn't draw this out."

I chuckle, "Okay, but you're in charge of making all the decisions for the wedding, with my ability to veto you when you go too big."

"Then we'll make a science baby. You're right on the research. There isn't a heightened danger like with the cloning. There is no altered DNA. Of course, chromosomal abnormalities will be incredibly common, but they are easily screened for in the zygote before implantation."

"Can we not use technical terms when we are talking about our baby?" I request.

"That's a ridiculous request coming from a medical man. Denied."

I run my hand through his curls, because when he's like this. Impossible. I love him even more.

"Choosing a donor/surrogate will be important. The mitochondrial DNA is not the most important of course. Assuming it is disease free it probably only has a small effect on stamina and lifespan. However, the surrogate will be taking care of our child for nine months, and considering how difficult it is for us to trust a babysitter it would be much harder to trust someone for that long."

"So, we ask Molly then?" I ask. She is the only female of child bearing age we trust.

He stares at me in shock, "I am surprised you would be okay with that considering the feelings she had for me."

"Molly is over you," I say analyzing his face carefully, hoping that he hasn't seen something in our friend that I could not.

"I was thinking of Janine," he says.

"Janine, like you were engaged to Janine? You want to have a baby with Janine?" I say in look and horror.

He rolls his eyes slowly and dramatically, "It was not a real proposal."

"Okay, but you dated her for a month. You kissed her, you really kissed her! She saw you naked!"

"Honestly, John, I was also naked in Buckingham Palace."

"Sherlock," I say trying to calm my emotions down, and be rational. "You didn't want to ask Molly, because she was too emotionally involved. Wouldn't there be the same problem with Janine?"

"Janine and I have been friends for far longer than we were in a falsified relationship," he says.

"I did not realize you were still friends with her," I say in something akin to terror. Developing an emotional connection, that's what he needs to feel attraction right?

"John, I don't have any romantic feelings for Janine."

"Maybe not now…" I say.

"Oy!" he exclaims standing up to get his phone. "Here text messages," he says pushing it toward me.

"I don't need to read your texts," I protest trying to give it back to him.

"It worked with Irene," he points out.

"I trust you," I tell him.

"Okay, then read them anyway. If she is going to be our donor/surrogate you need to get to know her better."

"Possibly not by spying on her conversations with my boyfriend," I point out.

"I should set up dinner then? For the three of us?" he asks.

"Okay, but we're not going to drop this one her right away. We'll start with her and I being friends."

Theo comes down the stairs, and stares at us.

"You just do that, whenever?" he asks.

Sherlock kisses my neck, and pulls me closer to him.

"Sherlock, our son is not comfortable seeing his parents this close. Respect that," I say pulling away from him, and sitting.

"No, it's totally fine," Theo says, "I'm still not used to that being…okay."

"It is," I declare.

Sherlock pulls me back against him again, kissing my neck.

"Am I allowed to date?" Theo asks in a small voice.

He kissed someone. Before he was kicked out of his home, he kissed someone. I'd sort of forgotten about that detail. "You're very young, Theo," I warn.

"We'd expect your relationship to stay non-physical at your age. Even kissing, and hand holding are off limits for now. If you want to have a romantic friendship someone to go to movies with or invite to our house to play bored games and to talk to, then I don't see anything wrong with that."

"I'm almost thirteen," Theo objects.

"Am I being demisexually prudish?" Sherlock asks maneuvering his neck so he can look at me.

Theo's cheeks go red at the word, and I feel like we have to define, because his guesses are clearly rather dirty.

"No," I say patting Sherlock's hand and sitting up again. "Theo, you've lived with us for a while, but we've never really defined ourselves for you fully. I'm bisexual."

"I guessed, because of Rosie's mom," he says looking uncomfortable.

"Okay, and Sherlock is gay, but also something called demisexual. It means that he has to get to know someone for a really long time before he has romantic feelings for him. It means that he hasn't really liked a lot of people."

"Just you, John," Sherlock says.

"Oh," Theo says looking surprised. I want to ask him if he has any questions, but I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't ask any questions right now no matter how desperately he had them.

"But he definitely wasn't being overprotective or prudish or just projecting the way he gets to know people on you. You're young, and if you dive into too much too soon it wouldn't be good. So, romantic friendship. I think that's the best way to look at it."

"My head feels dizzy when I'm around him," Theo says blushing.

"I know!" Sherlock says sounding alarmed, "When I first developed feelings for John I thought I was having a stroke. I demanded and MRI."

"They gave you an MRI?" I say surprised.

"No, they told me that there was nothing wrong with me. So, I made Molly do one."

"Molly does not have an MRI machine at Barts."

"Of course not, we used the one at your surgery."

"How did you manage that one?" I ask.

"I might have a copy of your work keys," he says.

"Right, I'll be needing those back then."

"No, I need them in case on an emergency," he says.

"In case you start to go all hypochondriac?" I ask.

"I cause I need some tests," he pouts.

"Does your stomach feel all funny too?" Theo asks.

"Yes, at first I thought it was, because Mrs. Hudson started buying a different brand of tea. The tea man found out she was dating someone else, and just flirted with him to get the best stuff. Imagine that, he cut me off cold turkey, even though I was completely innocent!"

I take his hand in mine. Sweaty palms. The things Sherlocks have been describing are things that I used to feel all the time. When I was in secondary school dealing with my first crushes, like Theo is. They are not things that I felt as an adult.

As I listen to Sherlock commensurate with our son about being too excited to sleep, because of a memory of something someone said, it occurs to me that my fiancé might love me in a way that I can never love him back.


	31. Dylan's Boyfriend

I don't know what I expected when my son told me that he was bringing a date over. I should have expected what I got in hind sight. Or better yet, I could have expected nothing.

Dylan looks a lot older than Theo, but Theo is small for his age (I know how big twelve-year-olds should be now). I hope he isn't more than a year older than my son. Or maybe I don't hope that he's older than my son, because I'm pretty sure this kid doesn't have a home. I don't know, maybe he dresses like that by choice. They do sometimes, these young people. He eats like he's starving, but that could again be because he was a teenager.

At least those track marks don't look to recent.

I try to ask questions, but Theo gives me that look like I'm horribly embarrassing, and asks if he's allowed to go up to his room with Dylan.

So, I leave them alone.

Then seven o'clock clicks.

"Dylan, you've got a place to sleep tonight?" I ask him.

"Of course," he says with an eye roll.

I start to leave the room, and then return, "So, I don't want to say that I don't believe you, but…"

"Sherlock found me a place months ago," Dylan replies.

"Oh," I say stunned by my partner. "How exactly did he know you back then? I mean, I wasn't aware that you and Theo had known each other that long."

"Oh, we didn't. Sherlock took down the boss a couple of months ago, and he made sure that all of us boys had a place to go afterwards. I was struggling after, so he started picking me up from school, and then Theo and Rosie and I would hang out for a couple of hours. We'd do homework or go to the park or whatever."

"Sherlock didn't tell you?" Theo says.

"No, he didn't," I say smiling, "Can I give you a ride home, kiddo?"

Dylan nods.

"You come back often, Dylan, okay," I say.

-0-

No one is eating breakfast. Rosie is turning hers into art. Sherlock is texting frantically on his phone, and forgetting to eat. Theo is pushing his food around on his plate, and he keeps looking at me.

I smile at him in that way that makes my kids spill their guts.

"You didn't like Dylan did you, John?" Theo asks.

"What? Of course I did."

"No, you were freaked out. You thought he was bad," he argues.

"No honey. I was a little concerned, I'll admit…"

"That he was going to make me start doing drugs or something," Theo argues.

"No, just about his safety."

"Because you know I am just like Dylan," Theo says in a challenging voice.

"Theo, I have no problem with your boyfriend."

"I saw the way you looked at him when he came over."

I sigh, "Okay, so I was a bit surprised by him, I suppose. It's not my fault, very parent wants the best for their kids. They want things to be easy for their kids. I'm not sure that Dylan is going to be especially easy."

"I'm not easy either," Theo says sobbing a little bit.

"Oh Kiddo," I say kneeling before him. "I choose you. You are perfect to me. You will always be perfect to me. There is nothing you could do that would ever make you less than perfect in my eyes."

"Why did you want me?" he asks.

"Because you are an amazing human," I say.

He shakes his head, "That first day, why did you want me?"

"Because I love you."

"No, why did you want me?" he asks again.

"Because you are ours, Theo. It's chance that you are ours instead of ending up with someone else, and some other kid ending up with us. But it's just chance when you have a genetic child as well. Families are always luck."

Theo nods his head, "It was three weeks between when Lestrad brought me home and when Dylan got out."

Survivor's guilt. He's too young for that.

"But he's safe now. That's what matters," I tell him, "It's no different than all the time he spent there before you got out."

"Things happened to Dylan that didn't happen to me," he says.

Sherlock puts his phone down staring at the little boy in horror, "You shouldn't even have to know what that means."

"He shouldn't have had to live through it," Theo says.

"He's gotten help?" Sherlock asks.

Theo nods.

"He still doesn't have a family though," Theo says, "I can't imagine what it would be like if I didn't have a family after what I've been through. It must be so much worse after what he has been through. Can't you adopt him?"

"Adopt your boyfriend?" I say in horror, "Not a good plan bud."

"We'd stop dating. He needs a family more than I need a boyfriend."

"Well, that is definitely true, but Dylan becoming your brother would not be wise. We can look for a family for Dylan though. No promises."

Sherlock does that little half grin that always means he is up to something. The smile is on the side away from Theo, and towards me, which means that I am probably going to like whatever plan he just came up with. He picks up his phone, and starts typing again.

Theo takes a bite of his cereal, and then makes a face which clearly shows it's gone soggy turning our talk.

I stand up to get him new cereal while Sherlock grabs the bowl, and tosses it into the sink over his shoulder.

Making an ungodly mess in the process.

God, I love this man.

"Invite Dylan over tomorrow afternoon," Sherlock commands.

-0-

Rosie is painting again, this time with actual paint. She is dressed in Sherlock's old t-shirt, and pretty much the entire kitchen is covered in newspaper. These precautions are of course, justified. Because her art is much too grand to stay on a canvas.

Dylan, Sherlock, and Theo are playing a game of Cluedo, and I am trying to make super while not setting the very flammable kitchen on fire.

Then Greg walks in.

"I'm sorry for the mess," I say hoping that Sherlock wasn't given warning about this. Greg usually does tell us before he comes over, and if Sherlock knew, and didn't give me time to get everyone cleaned up I am going to be livid at him.

"It's fine," Greg says looking positively nervous. Sherlock made me an expert at reading body language. Mostly by just announcing everyone's mood whenever they would rather he didn't know. The next part he does, explain exactly what the mood means, is something I am not nearly so good at. So, I have no idea what it means that Greg is standing in my kitchen nervous.

"Join the game," Sherlock invites from the living room, grinning. He's stilling on the couch next to Dylan, but he stands up, and pulls a chair across the room for himself.

Greg sits down on the couch.

Sherlock grins like a Cheshire cat.

Dylan looks unnerved by the whole proceeding.

"How can you even add someone to the game this late?" Theo asks with annoyance.

"We'll just start over," Sherlock says cheerfully holding out a hand to take the cards.

Theo refuses to give his up, "No! You're just saying that because you know I'm winning!"

"You're not winning," Sherlock says.

"I am!"

"It was done in the library with the lead pipe by Professor Plum," Sherlock says exasperated, "I've known for five turns, and you should have known for three yourself if you hadn't asked such logicless questions! Dylan, you're fine, you were dealt horrible cards, and you couldn't have figured it out for two more turns even if you hadn't been playing badly."

"Sherlock," I warn trying to fit him with a glare he'll fear. I don't think I have such a thing in my arsenal though.

"How old do children have to be before you don't have to pretend to be stupid to play with them?" he asks.

"Sherlock!" I try shouting, hoping that that will get a reaction out of him.

"That's right, apparently older than you," he half mumbles.

I leave the dangerous cooking experiment to pull him out of the living room by his collar. He makes a little half grin. With the grinning side away from me, so I know that he thinks he's just played me. Well, he has, because apparently I've just completed some part of a plan, and I have no idea what that plan is.

Sherlock tosses a wink toward Greg, which I think (or is it hope) that he misses.


	32. The Fieriness is Probably Right

I am returning from the bathroom with a freshly cleaned Rosie when Dylan shoots past me in tears. I run out to the stairway expecting to see him run down the stairs, and out of the apartment, but he's going upstairs to Theo's room.

Theo walks past me, and follows his friend at a pace halfway between a walk and a run.

"What happened?" I ask the two adults left in the sitting room.

Greg shrugs, and Sherlock is silent.

I give the food one last stir before shutting it off, and beginning to set the table.

"I should probably get going," Greg stays standing up.

"Oh, I don't think you're going to want to be doing that," Sherlock stays looking at the stairs.

Theo descends them looking glum.

"What's wrong with Dylan?" I ask him concerned by the amount of worry on his face.

"Dylan thinks that you are trying to pimp him out. I'm sorry, but I couldn't think of a better way to say it. Is that a bad word?"

"It's not a nice word, but you're not in trouble for saying it," I say, because I can at least deal with my son's distress, although I am woefully unready to deal with the bigger issue at hand.

"I'm going up there," Greg says walking up the stairs with a clenched jaw.

"Not like that you're not. He already thinks you are a threat, what do you think is going to happen if you go charging up there like a bull?" Sherlock asks.

"Will he feel more or less safe with all of us?" I ask.

Sherlock takes Rosie from my arms, "You two go, but take Theo. I don't really want him to hear this conversation, but…"

"Dylan would tell me all about it afterword anyway," Theo says with a proud tilt of his head, "And besides. Making Dylan feel safe is way more important than whatever I hear."

I don't like it, but I know that both of them are right, so we let my son lead us up the stairs. The sight breaks my heart. Dylan is curled up near the closet, and when we enter he curls himself into an even more impossibly small ball.

"Dylan, no one was trying to hurt you," I say soothingly.

"I don't want to," he says.

"Well, neither do I," Greg says a hell of a lot rougher than I would have approached the situation. But maybe that is good, maybe he is right. Anger is the natural reaction to someone praying on a child, after all, and a child predator would speak softly and kindly to their pray, "I don't get turned on by little kids. Hell, I don't get turned on my anyone under thirty anymore, and that's only if they are women. Honey, Sherlock asked me to come here, because he knew I was thinking about adopting," I shoot him a look of shock which he waves away, "And he knew that you wanted a family. I wasn't going to mention anything on the first night. I wanted to get to know you first. I'm not even sure if I'm cut out for the whole fatherhood thing. But you have to know that that was why I was here. I would never, ever, ever want to do anything even close to what you thought I wanted. I'm going to leave now, because I know that is going to make you more comfortable."

"I wouldn't want me either," Dylan mutters so quietly that I worry Lestrad might have might have missed it, and am about to repeat it to make sure he's heard.

"I have every intention of seeing you again Dylan, if you want. You're not losing out on a chance of having a father because you're having a real reaction to something horrible that happened to you. I am just giving you some space. I think if you are honest with yourself you probably do want the space."

He stares at Greg with large eyes, "Stay," he whispers.

"Okay," Greg says sitting down on the floor aways away from him. "What's your favorite color?" he asks.

Dylan smiles at such a common question coming during such an uncommon situation. He uncurls a little. "I'm afraid it will happen again. I can barely think about anything else."

"That's to be expected after what happened to you."

"So, you think it will happen again?" Dylan asks worried.

"No, no one is going to hurt you. But it's normal to worry about it. It's going to be a while until you feel safe again."

"But I will?" Dylan asks.

"Yes," Greg assures him.

Dylan breaths out, and is no mostly laying on the floor flat instead of curled up. "You'll come visit me at the care home?"

"Of course," Greg says.

Dylan smiles. Then his face grows grave, "Did they tell you I'm queer?"

"They didn't need to. I was there when you were arrested honey. I remember you, in fact. I know that Dan specializes in children kicked out of their home by their parents because of their sexuality. I knew that he used drugs to control people, but I didn't know about the sex trafficking. I thought I was doing everything to get the man off the streets, but if I'd known he was doing that I could have done it a lot sooner."

"Is he free again?" Dylan asks.

"No, this time he's going to be put away for a long time. I'll let you know before he gets free again, and I will never let him hurt you again.

"Tuesday?" Dylan asks.

"To go to your care home?" Greg asks seaming surprised by the change in the conversation.

"Yes," Dylan says.

"I'll be there," Greg says standing up.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Dylan says looking at me with eyes full of hope.

"I will call your care home, and see what they will say. I don't want you to think that sleepovers are going to be a regular thing though. You are far too young to be having sleepovers with your boyfriend. You'll be on the couch though," I declare. "Okay, I'll go see what they say." I turn back at the doorway, "I hope you know that we would never let anything bad happen to you."

"I know that. I even know that you were part of stopping it. I didn't remember Lestrad the day that I got arrested, but I did remember Sherlock. He visited me when I was in the hospital for withdraw too. You cried. I just forgot about it how kind you were," Dylan says, "When he sat down next to me my mind just shut down."

"I know Dylan, it's okay. It's going to get better," I told him.

"Is he a good man?" Dylan asks.

"Oh yes, he's one of the good ones for sure," I assure him.

"Does he really want me?"

"Sherlock wouldn't have brought him here if there wasn't a good chance, and he wouldn't have told you what he was thinking unless he was pretty sure, but we can't make any promises. There are a lot of things that are involved in this, and we don't have control over all of them."


	33. Kink

Sherlock has gotten bolder in bed the longer we've been together. Tonight kissing quickly turns to Sherlock flinging me face down on his bed, and covering me with his long lank body. I can feel him pressing into me, and then he pulls away.

"Sorry," he says.

"What the hell are you sorry for?" I ask.

"You're so respectful about my not wanting to participate in oral. I should respect you not wanting to bottom."

I feel a grin crossing my face at the same time heat grows deep in my belly, "I never said I didn't want to bottom."

"You didn't?" he blinks in surprise clearly running though that cluttered up mind palace of his, "No, you didn't. I deduced it though."

"I didn't want to at first. I don't even know exactly when I began to be okay with it, but I do know that I'm okay with it right now," I tell him.

"You're sure?" Sherlock asks.

I barely have time to nod, before he's flipped me around and pinned me to the bed trusting against my bottom.

"Oh GOD yes," I whimper.

"And you've never had anything in it, have you?" he whispers, "Not even a finger or a toy."

"Finger," I admit. I'm hoping that he doesn't ask whose. He'll assume Shoto's probably, and I don't want to tell him it was really Mary's. I know that talking about things like this is part of being with someone, but sometimes I don't want to talk about Mary.

"You know it's going to hurt, right?" he asks softly as he tries to clamber over for supplies without releasing me from the pinned state.

"The first time," I agree.

"Each time," he corrects.

I try to turn my head to look at him, but his arm, reaching for the drawer is in the way, "Sherlock, I hurt you every time we have sex?"

"Yes, but I think part of that is because you don't use enough lube. I'm going to use a lot, and hopefully it won't hurt you as much."

"Jesus, Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me?" I practically shout trying to free myself. He allows me to wiggle out from under him. I turn towards him, and he curls around me facing me, not willing to take away all physical contact.

"I was afraid you would stop," Sherlock practically whines.

"I wouldn't have stopped having sex with you all together, I would have just found a way to do it that didn't result in you being in pain," I argue.

"That's what I was afraid of. I was afraid you would stop causing me pain," he practically whispers.

I'm shock, but I know that I don't really have a right to be. I should have guessed it, deduced it. I just didn't think I had to, because I figured my lover would tell me something as important as this, "You like pain during sex, Sherlock?"

He nods almost looking embarrassed.

"You should have told me that. I'm not okay with causing you pain on accidently, and I really don't want to do it from penetration, but I would be happy to oblige in other ways."

"You already do," he says.

"How?" I ask moving his curls away. He closes his eyes in pleasure at the action. I love the paradox of the man who loves pain during sex, and the smoothing of hair like he's a small child.

"When we're rubbing ourselves together you dig your fingernails into my back," he admits.

"I suppose I knew I did that."

"And when we're tossing each other off if I can make you come before me you have this iron grip on my penis which I absolutely love."

I really want to scold him, because I feel like this is not the right way to deal with this kink. It sounds…damaging. But Sherlock already seems to think there is something wrong with his particular tastes, and I don't want to do anything to make it seam more like a sin to him.

So, instead I lean forward and kiss him. Taking his bottom lip between my teeth, and pulling at it, nipping at it. I get so caught up in the sound of pleasure he is making that I don't stop soon enough. It is the iron taste of blood which alerts me I've gone too far.

"Sorry," I whisper.

"Don't apologize," he says trying to go in for another kiss.

I put my hand out to stop him, "I'm going to have to do some research, read up on how to do this without damaging you."

"It's just blood," he objects. "You've hurt me more than that," he says with glimmering eyes. "You've punched me three different times, and if you wanted to make a habit of that I would certainly not object."

Three times. "You're including the one in the mortuary? Sherlock, I'm going to tell you right now that I will never again be hurting you that bad."

"I don't really want you to. It wasn't as good as the other two times."

I smile, realizing, "You didn't really need me to punch you for the disguise with Irene."

"No, but it was a great excuse to ask you to do it. Imagine how please I was when you took it even farther. You wrestled with me!"

I smile. "And you were not really so stupid to keep egging me on when you'd just come back from the dead either."

"No, I was going to see how many times I could get you to punch me. Mary figured it out. She really was quite clever, you know John."

"Not only that, but she was a hell of a woman, wasn't she? You're sure she knew?" He nods, "So that means that he figured out that a man is sexually aroused by her fiancé punching him, and she just let you keep asking to be punched. Then, she goes home with her fiancé and spends over an hour convincing him that she should forgive the friend."

"Oh, she was never jealous," he says dismissively.

"That's my point, she was kind."

"No, John, she didn't think you could ever love me. She didn't think I could ever love you either, not properly. Not the way you'd want to be loved." He rushes on like he just accused himself of a horrible crime, "I didn't lie to her John! I still really believed that I was not capable of any kind of romantic love!"

"I know Sherlock," I sooth him, running my hands across his back, and then digging in my nails for a light scratch. He seems to enjoy even that slight level of pain. That's probably for the best, because I didn't want to get the habit of punching my fiancé. That would be a bit hard to explain to our families.

"Did you want to explore this pain thing, or finish what we started?" I ask him.

He pins me beneath him once again in answer, thrusting against me. We've gotten careless about using condoms since Sherlock's squeamishness about bodily fluids has become more mild, but he uses them now.

His finger slick with lube, sliding inside of me. I wiggle a bit so he hits the prostate more easily. You don't do as many prostate exams as I have done without knowing exactly where it is. God that feels good.

"You sure about this?" he asks whispering in my ear.

"Yes," I say softly.

"Then relax," he says prompts..

I really can't though. "New position?" I ask. He lets me up and go to my side. He coils around me like we are cuddling. Like we've done a hundred times. There is a moment or two where I feel nothing but his chest rising and falling against my back.

Then his hand guiding himself in. God, I feel stuffed. It's almost too much. I am about to tell Sherlock not to move right away, but he already knows. He only goes half in before he pauses. I feel myself spasm against him a few times and I'm not relaxing.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Please, don't be. I'm enjoying myself. Besides, it's not like I wouldn't have had the same problem if you were larger and I hadn't been sticking things up my bum as my primary form of masturbation since late childhood."

Uncontrollable giggles overtake me.

"What is so funny?" he insists.

"You insulting my penis and oversharing about teenage sexuality to make me relax," I say still chuckling.

"It worked," he points out, and suddenly I realize that he's fully inside of me. "And don't laugh when we're having sex."

I can't help it; I'm laughing again. "Sherlock, this is what we are. We've got a playful deep love."

"And I've got a bigger penis," he retorts clearly still annoyed at my laughing. Of course that only makes me laugh harder.

He starts moving then, and it takes my breath away.

"That's better. That's how you're supposed to be…impressed by me."

"Always," I plead, "You're amazing. Astounding. I can't believe someone as wonderful as you walks the same Earth as I do." At some point that topped being sarcastic, and he's hitting a spot inside of me that is making me lose my fucking mind.

I try to think of another compliment, but my mind is reaching, reaching, and not coming up with anything. I can't remember how to word.

He's pushed me down, and is sprawling over me again. I don't even know if he noticed that he did it. This is hitting a whole new angle, and has the added benefit of jamming my aching cock into the bed and providing some relief.

"Squeeze me until it hurts," he pleads, and I comply, sending him over the edge. He stays inside me, rolling back onto the side, and reaching around to finish me. But as soon as that is accomplished he pulls away form me, and gets up.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"Shower," he says as if it were obvious. Which it clearly is not, because I haven't run off to take a shower every time I fucked him.

I reach up, and take his hand, "Please say?"

He sighs. "I suppose it is rude to run off when you've just deflowered someone." He's already removed the condom, and he cleans himself with a ridiculous amount of wipes. I'm not alarmed, I know how he gets used to sex. Besides, asses are a little gross.

When he's finally done he lays down next to me.

"You like that?" I ask.

"Not as much as the other way," he admits, "You?"

"I like it a lot, but I wouldn't want it to become the main thing we do together."

"More a special occasion thing," Sherlock agrees. "Is that what it's not to have sex with a women?"

"Only if you're having sex in her arse," I inform him.

He chuckles, "What it's like the other way?"

"Wetter, opener…more boobs," I tell him.

"Yeah, I still don't get why you would pick that over a man," he says puzzled.

"Don't worry about it, I'm not going to," I say sprawling over him.

He pulls me close to him. I dip my head to nip his nipple. I might be starting to enjoy his kink.


	34. Coming Out-Of the Cake

"You realize that people come out of cakes at bachelor parties, and not at wedding parties," I say surveying the giant cake suspiciously.

"When that happens it's strippers. I don't want to see a stripper, and I definitely don't want you to see one. You might enjoy it."

"I think the bigger problem would be that it would not be appropriate to have them around our children, because it is, I repeat not a bachelor party, but a wedding party which tends to draw a bit of a different audience."

"You wouldn't let me pop out of a cake at our coming out party," he pouts. He looks like a child when he pouts. There are actually a few emotions he looks like that, it looks like he learned them by making faces in a mirror. He probably did. I'm going to ask him.

"Don't you want me to jump out of a cake? Don't you feel anything for me anymore?"

"I want it noted that I see through you before I agree to this," I say.

"You want to get in the cake with me?" he asks cheerfully.

"God no!" I chuckle. "I think I'll stand behind Mrs. Hudson in case she faints."

"Mrs. Hudson never faints," he objects like I have just insulted his honor, "Well, at least she never faints unless it will benefit her in some way."

-0-

Deductions clearly rub off on people. I can tell that Lestrad already knows what is going to happen when the oversized cake is rolled into the room.

When Sherlock pops out of the cake Mrs. Hudson does not faint, but she does grab into her heart as if she expects that it will stop at any moment. Rosie starts to cry.

"What's wrong?" I ask her.

"Cake ruined!" she wails.

"No it's not," Sherlock says leaping over the cake with as much regard as he has for living room furniture with a piece of cake firmly in his hand. He shoves it in her mouth. This works as appeasement and she stops whimpering.

"More?" she asks.

"You've been teaching her to scam haven't you?" I ask.

His eye are startled, and it takes me a minute to understand why. "Really? Ms. Rosie? Did it only take you thirty-one months to outsmart the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"It does not count!" He protests, "I was distracted."

"Oh no, my daughter is definitely smarter than you. She's probably been pulling your strings like a puppet for months, haven't you?" I ask.

"Puppet," she grins.

"I'm going to have to use her to manipulate you in the future. Maybe you could have prevented him from popping out of the cake in the first place!" I exclaim.

"All right, all right. A costume change," he says looking down at his cake covered clothes, "And then we'll begin our dance. Are you sure you don't want a part in it?" Sherlock asks our son

"Am I sure I don't want to dance around with my dads and baby sister? Yeah. I'm sure. I'm not that gay," he says with a chuckle.

-0-

Janine is showing every sign of nervousness known to man. When she sees Sherlock her face lights up in a way I can't pretend to love. She starts to stand up, and the pops right back down. She was going to hug him before it occurred to her that I wouldn't like it. I have absorbed just a little bit of Holmes's deduction ability, but every once in a while it was too much.

"Nice to see you again John," she says grinning at me, "And Sherl." Whatever she was trying to accomplish by greeting me first is destroyed by that ridiculous nickname. "Rosie master that tricycle yet?" she continues.

"Yes, but only on grass. In some ways that girl is fearless, and in other ways…"

"She's smart and cautious, and with the two of you as parents she is going to need it!" Janine exclaims.

They talk about our children the two of them, during this long and secret relationship that no one bothered to tell me about. Yeah, I really don't think this is going to work. I can't imagine myself magically becoming okay with the idea of her being the mother to my children.

She sighs looking at me, "Sherl, why is he so jumpy?"

"There is a lot riding on this," Sherlock says with far too much honesty for my own liking.

"Oh," she says her eyes going wide and covering his mouth. "Well, yes, I'd be willing to do a threesome."

I choke on air, and neither of them react to it. They just continue the conversation.

Sherlock Holmes tuts, "Always overconfidence Janene. That's what turns what would be a reasonably good deduction into nothing more than guesswork."

"What else would make him blush like that?" she asks looking over to me even though I am not currently blushing. If my cheeks were red it would be from a lack of air. I'm still choking.

"We're interested in surrogacy," Sherlock says, "After a fashion."

"Who's going to be donor?" she asks with interest.

It's at this point that I gain the ability to talk back, "Did either one of you notice or care that I was choking to death?"

"Stop being overdramatic. As a medical man you should know that no intervention is necessary while a choking victim is coughing. Had you stopped coughing I would have done something about it. Come now, do you really think we would have let you die when we were sitting here at the same table as you?"

Damn him for being right.

"Sherlock is going to be the donor," I say as calm as everyone else at the table has.

Sherlock glares at me, but I'm pretty sure that she is more likely to agree to this if she thinks it is his.

"Both of us would be," Sherlock corrects. We had agreed the two of us that we were not going to go into this level of detail during the first outing. Actually, we weren't even going to talk about the baby the first time. This was supposed to be about Janene and I getting to know each other the way that Sherlock and she did. Well, not that well, but…well enough that we could think about trusting her with our baby for nine months.

She tilts her head in a curious fashion, "You two would be the ones to figure out a way to do that wouldn't you?"

"We shouldn't talk too much about it in public, it being such a new procedure, but you would contribute only a tiny bit of the DNA, and then of course you would have a nine month baby sitting run," Sherlock replies.

Her lips quirk at that suggestion, "The offer to have a baby with the greatest of all detectives is certainly appealing. I'd like a bit of time to think about it though."

"Of course," Sherlock says, "It's a very big commitment."

"I think we'd like to get to know you a little more too before we dive into something like this," I say awkwardly.

Janine laughs hardly, "You mean you would like a little more time to think about it. Clearly this was Sherlock's idea, and you're not totally sold on the idea."

"True," Sherlock says, "But I'm not entirely sold on the idea of having a baby this way at all, so we are more or less even."

"Right," she nods, "You were pretty set on the idea of not having genetic children."

"Which I think is ridiculous," I added in, "From a purely logical point of view genes like his ought to be passed on. It's just a scientific fact!"

"I completely agree," she says.

I open the menu to hide my emotion from not one, but two people who are too good at reading it.

Sherlock's hand forced it down with a laugh, "John, seriously? You flirt with every female you see! I'm demisexual for God's sake, and very gay! I am not going to fall for Janene!"

"You did date her," I remind him reluctantly.

He chuckles, "I pretended to date her in order to get into her office."

"You proposed, Sherlock," I remind him.

"We never had sex," Janine adds hopefully.

"Yes, well, Sherlock has to know someone for an awful long time before he would be comfortable enough to have sex." And they have known each other for a lot longer now than they did back then.

Janine laughs, "Did it occur to you that I no longer want to have sex with him?"

And then I notice what I should have noticed a long time ago.

"You're married," I say.

"Yes, and this one actually wanted to be married to me," she chuckles. "He's not quite as interesting as your madman here, but he's a good deal more sane and loving. Besides, if you think I have any desire to break up a family that involves two children…"

"I'm sorry," I say embarrassed suddenly for even thinking it.

"I like that you're jealous of me," Sherlock says with a wide grin on his face. "It makes me feel normal."

"Sherlock you _are_ normal. Demisexual is just one of the many normal ways that humans come."

He kisses me for that.

"Oh, you guys are so horribly adorable!" she gushes. "I would really be something close to an honor to have a part of giving you more children to raise. I'd actually really love to see you guys with your children."

"That's a really wise request to make," I tell her.

"And I would like to spend more time with John. Not to get to know him. Really to get to know Sherlock. Seeing John through Sherlocks eyes was without question the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me. If I could have the same privilege the other way I would really feel like I knew everything I needed to about the two of you. Besides, I imagine that John would want to get to know me better."

"What about me?" Sherlock asks offended.

"Oh, well I'd imagined that the two of us knew each other well enough already," she says surprised.

"You would not be contributing much to the child's genetics, but I do have a series of questions. I won't have our child starting off life with a genetic disease."

She chuckles. "Ask your questions."

He pulls out a notebook.

"Sherlock!" I protest, "We agreed that this first meeting was not going to turn into an interrogation."

"She said I could," Sherlock says raising his eyebrows at me.

"Fine," I say waving my hand, and giving up the illusion I ever had control over this situation.


	35. Yes baby!

We decided not to bring up the possibility of another child with our existing children until we got a yes from Janine. It only took six weeks. I would have thought that it would have taken far longer. Sherlock was expecting the decision four days sooner. He blames his miscalculation on the fact that she never told him that she had a cold.

Now it's time to bring the topic up, and I'm more than a little scared that our children are going to reject the idea off hand, and I'm really not sure then if we are going to attempt to go forward with it or not.

"Rosie, can you focus on what Sherlock and I are telling you?" I ask her.

"John, your daughter is certainly clever enough that she can listen while she builds with blocks," Sherlock says scolding.

"I'm think this conversation really deserves 100% of her concentration."

"That sounds ominous," Theo says.

"It's not," Sherlock says with a smile, "You see, this whole having kids business has worked out so well for us that we decided we should probably do a bit more of it."

I chuckle at the way he says it.

"Adoption?" Theo asks.

"No, surrogacy," Sherlock corrects.

"What?" Rosie says dropping her blocks and crawling up on his lap.

"It's when a woman grows a baby inside her belly, and then gives it to other people once it is born," he says.

"Where baby?" she asks.

"The baby isn't around yet, love," I say touching her head. "We wanted to see how you two felt about it before we actually made the baby.

"Whose baby would it be?" Theo asks.

"Both of ours," Sherlock says.

"No, but…" Theo looks very apologetic, "I'm sorry. Is this not a question you're allowed to ask in these circumstances? I was just curious."

"It's fine," I sooth, "It's just a little bit complicated. We've decided to tell people that it is Sherlock's child. Because if we actually did have to choose only one of us we would pick him," Sherlock tries to object, but I wave my hand at him, "I already have a genetic child. But the fact is there is a little known science way that allows us to both be the father. We won't be able to tell many people though."

"Not father," Sherlock corrects looking at me as if I were particularly dense, "I'm going to be the mother."

"Sherlock, even if your DNA is in the nucleus that doesn't mean you're the mother. Neither of us have to be female in this situation."

He stares at me with his 'you are so dense' look, "John, I'm going to be the mother."

"Oh," I say in surprise. You really can never guess when it comes to gender things with Sherlock, "I didn't realize. Of course, you're the mom, and I'm the dad. I can live with that."

"I thought it was obvious," he says.

"It wasn't, but now it is," I say giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"How does it work?" Theo asks with scientific curiosity which makes me so proud. At first, I tried to temper this feeling, because I worried that if he didn't have a scientific lean later on I might not be as proud. Since then I've felt pride at the way he treats his boyfriend like a prince, and the way he plays rugby, and the way he cleans up after he cooks (and even the way he cooks even when he can't cook well at all). I'm pretty sure that whatever my son does I am going to be enormously proud of him.

Sherlock explains the process to Theo slowly with plenty of questions. Meanwhile Rose sits on my lap, when all the questions are finished she asks, "Baby come here?" pointing down.

"Yes, the baby will be living here, but it is going to take a long time for it to grow big enough to do that."

She is wearing an unreadable expression which Sherlock claims she must have gotten from me, although I really don't see it.

"Do you like the idea of the baby coming to live with us?" I ask her.

"My room?" she asks wearing the same expression.

"Yes, the baby will probably go to live in your room when it is bigger," I tell her.

"My blankie?" she asks alarmed.

"No, we will get the baby its own blanket," I assure her.

"Yes, baby," she says awarding us with her permission.

"Then it's settled. We will start the process of adding a baby to this family," I say with a grin on my face.

"Baby _tomorrow_ ," she says narrowing her eyes at me.

"I'm afraid it's going to take a lot longer than that," Sherlock says.

"Baby _tomorrow,"_ she repeats turning her glare upon him.

"Listen, I was not in charge of human evolution. If I was it would have gone in a much more interesting direction. I mean, humans would have wings at the very least," Sherlock objects.

"Baby _tomorrow,"_ Rosie repeats.

"This child is impervious to logic," Sherlock objects.

I chuckle, "Tell you what, Rosie. Tomorrow I will take you to the zoo, and you can see baby animals."

She considers this offer for a time before she agrees with a nod of her head.

"Now she is going to think that a baby is the same as a baby money," Sherlock objects.

"Well, there are some similarities between baby humans and baby monkeys, besides we've got months to help her understand exactly what it will be like to be a big sister."

Sherlock smiles, "And even then, it won't explain everything. I think our experiences being little siblings to Harry and Mycroft were quite different. I don't think we could ever prepare her probably for exactly what being a sibling to this new baby was going to be like."

"No, I don't suppose we could," I agree.


	36. Motherhood

It does not take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Sherlock is unbelievably nervous right now, which is fortunate, because I'm not him, and he is.

I lean forward to whisper to him, "We could still leave."

"Why would we do that?" he asks.

"Because you look terrified Sherlock. Having a baby is not something you should do unless both people involved are 100% sure that it's the right thing for them."

"I'm sure, John. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. I'm just not excited about the actual process," he says blushing deeply.

"Oh, I see." I suppose masturbating in a place that isn't home would be a huge deal for a demisexual.

"You've got a lot more experience with this than I do, besides I haven't actually done that since we got together, but you still do a few times a week."

"I thought we agreed that you were going to stop measuring how often I did that."

"We did agree," he says grinning, "But then you forgot to put it on the relationship agreement."

"Well, that's something I'll fix when we get home," I say.

"Sherlock Holmes," the nurse says looking over her clipboard.

He goes pale, I mean paler than he normally does. He looks at me desperately. I am about to get some funny looks, but I can already tell that this is the only way that I'm going to get a baby. "I'm sorry. I know it's unconventional, but can my husband and I share a room?" I whisper.

She looks startled, but nods. She goes over and gets another cup which she holds in her hand before leading us to the room. Sherlock grabs onto my hand desperately. I squeeze his hand by way of comfort.

The nurse, whose entire job is talking to people who are about to toss one off in these rooms, seams to have trouble looking us in the eye, but it will be worth it if I can make Sherlock feel more comfortable.

The door shuts.

He draws out a long giant dildo out of his pocket, and looks at me bashfully.

I raise my eyebrows by way of question.

"My studying of your masturbatory habits have shown me that I do not do it in a typical way."

That implies he was watching me toss off. Fabulous.

I put my hand on the back of his neck, and we rest our foreheads together for a little bit. Our breath unites in rhythm, and it is only then that I begin to kiss him. He starts fiddling with his pants long before he would if this session didn't have a special purpose.

He's not even hard.

I lean forward and whisper in his ear, "Close your eyes. Pretend that you're at home. Just the two of us, in our own bed."

Then I touch him. My hand, not his, and he relaxes into the feeling. It's still awkward, and he still remains soft for so much longer than he would if we had no goal in this apart from pleasure, but at least now we are making progress.

"Superb, amazing," I whisper to him.

"No, not today," he says, "Something else today."

I am turned on despite the location, so it takes me a while to be able to think of something logical. "We're making a baby, right now," I remind him, whispering gently in his ear.

"Oh God, we are," he says bucking my hand.

"The two of us, two men! The first in the world," I remind him.

"Baby," he mutters.

"Yes, and it will be genes of both of us, mixed up forever, and ever. Nothing will ever be able to pull them apart."

"Miracle," he whispers.

"Yes, we're making a miracle," I encourage.

"I'm going to be a mother," he beams. And then he manages to forget the awkward place our lovemaking session is taking place in, and abandon ourselves to the moment.

-0-

It's the first time that Sherlock doesn't clean me up after we're done. He's much too focused on making sure that our samples are okay.

Then, just like that, with my pants still around my ankles (the joys of going second in something like this) he slips out of the room.

"Bloody hell," I mutter.

And that's when I notice that he's left the giant dildo behind him. His long coat is full of all sorts of pockets, more than enough places for him to hide something like that. My clothing does not have that particular advantage.

I pull my pants up, and shove the stupid toy up the sleeve of my jacket before going out in the room. Sherlock is making comments about the quantity and clarity of our samples (his is winning apparently, because of course it is). She is acting like she's been waiting her whole career for someone to talk about the scientific specimens she works with every day with this sort of interested detachment.

Sherlock looks at me as he comes out of the room, "Did you injure yourself?"

"No," I say in a tone that would cause anyone else to drop it. But Sherlock has deleted all the social graces he once knew in order to make room for recognizing every kind of perfume by scent.

"Your arm is stiff. I know that nerves had a negative effect on my performance, but I really hope it didn't cause you to injure yourself," he repeats reaching for my arm. When he touches it his eyes go wide, "Oh."

"Yeah," I say hoping that no one else is going to figure out what is happening. They probably won't right? I mean giant sex toy in the sleeve probably does not happen often enough that it becomes a guess, not even in a place like this.

"Well, I'm glad it's not permanent," he says with a shrug.

A shrug, but no apology.

"Are we good to go home?" I ask the lady behind the desk.

"Yep, we've got everything we need," she says with a nod.

I loop my arm, the one not impeded by his carelessness around his very sharp elbow.


	37. Call Me Mom

Sherlock is being sweet again. After all this time I am still surprised when it happens, even though I really shouldn't be at this point. He's laying absolutely still in bed so that he won't wake me up. I reach over and grab is hand to let him know that I'm awake.

"What do you think of 'Pops?'" I ask.

"Goes the weasel?" he asks confused.

I chuckle, "Usually it's you who is asking questions without enough context to answer them, so I suppose it was my turn. No, as a name for Rosie to call you," I explain.

He ponders, "She's called me Sherlock her whole life, why would we want to change now?"

"You are far more than just Sherlock to her, you know. You're her father. Besides, whatever we decided on for Rosie, we could use the same thing for Theo if he ever wanted to move away from calling the two of us by our first names, and for the new baby."

"I was serious about wanting the new baby to call me mom," he says.

That surprises me a little. I don't want to talk about how this is a great way to get the child teased, when Sherlock is already sensitive to that happening to his children.

"How about we pick something a bit more…poetic for both of us then. Maybe we pick something in another language?"

He chuckles, "Sorry John, but mom in other languages is still going to sound like mom. Why don't you just tell me that you hate the idea instead of trying to fool a human lie detector?"

"I don't hate the idea," I correct, "I just worry it might have a negative impact on our kids, and I know that's the last thing that you would ever want."

He nods his agreement.

"But if it's going to take something important away form you, or if it's going to feel like a lie for you to call themselves their father than we're not going to do it," I tell him.

He shrugs his shoulder, "What in the end is the difference between a father and a mother, or for that matter between a father and a Sherlock? It doesn't matter what they call me, it matters what things are like between us day in and day out."

"I agree," I say grinning at him.

"They can call me Pater, then. They could all do with knowing a bit more Latin," he says with a look of disgust.

"You do understand that one of them isn't even born yet, right? And that another is a toddler, and the last one you're responsible for teaching, so if there really is anything lacking in his education it is 100% your fault." I nuzzle against him, and try to picture it, three children all around us, calling me daddy and him Pater.

"Sherlock, I want a weird name too," I demand.

"Pater is not a weird name," he pouts.

"Sorry, I just mean…I don't want the name dad when you have a name which is a bit more distant."

"Rosie already calls you dad."

"She's smart enough to learn something new," I point out.

"She certainly is," he says with a grin.

"Well, How about Abba then? A bit of Hebrew for them?" He asks.

"I love it," I sigh contentedly on his chess. "We'll tell ask Rosie to make the change today, I think. We'll tell Theo he's welcome to call us by those names, but let's let him make the choice of when and if he wants to start using it, eh?"

"Of course!" Sherlock says enthusiastically.

-0-

"Dada! Tea!" Rosie demands bitterly not happy about how long (a few seconds) I've forced her to wait for her favorite beverage.

"It's going to take a second, honey. Also, we've decided that you can start calling me Abba. It means Daddy in Hebrew. Then you can call Sherlock Pater. That means Daddy in Latin. You can call him that, because he is your Daddy too."

"Abba," she says pointing at me, and then pointing at her father he repeats, "Patta."

"Pater, but that's close enough little one," Sherlock says looking at her with such joy in his face that I kick myself for not having done this months ago.

"Theo, you're welcome to call us these names too if you want," I say smiling at him.

He looks down looking bashful, and nervous, "I…I'm not sure that I can."

My heart suddenly thuds down deep in my chest, but I work hard to make my voice sound accepting and warm, "That's fine honey. You can explain to us why calling us those words is something you're not interested in, or you cannot, whatever you are comfortable with."

"No, I meant…can you write them down? I wasn't really listening, and I don't want to get them wrong," he says looking up at me as if I were a particularly dull creature.

"We could pick something more common if you would be more comfortable with that," I tell him.

"Oh no, I'm actually glad you went for something that I didn't call my own father. Words like "dad" and "father" don't mean to me what it means to most people. You guys are so much more than a "dad" or "father" to me, and I really want a different word to describe it."

I pull him into a hug.

"At least let me have a turn before you smoother him John!" Sherlock exclaims in annoyance, "He was being sweet to me too!"

When we finally free Theo he is looking at us cautiously, "What do you tell people about me?" he asks.

"We don't tell them about your past. We wouldn't do that unless you told us that it was okay," I tell him in a way which I think is comforting.

Sherlock shoots me a look of reproach which almost turns my stomach a little bit, "No, he means what do we call them. Theo, we've been telling people that you are our son."

He smiles, "Even since the beginning?" he asks insecurely.

"Yes, we knew that's what you were when you came to live with us," Sherlock says confidently.

"Is it okay that I haven't been calling your guys my parents?" he asks.

"Of course, honey, you get to define your own family," I assure him.

"It's not okay with me that we didn't make it clear what you were too us though," Sherlock says glumly. "I hate the idea that you ever had to question if you fit, if you belonged. You are ours, forever, and for always."

Theo grins. Then a worry crosses over his face like a shadow. "You don't tell people I did drugs?"

"It's not exactly the sort of thing which comes up in conversation all the time," Sherlocks says.

"You're ashamed of me," Theo accuses in a soft voice.

"No, honey, never," I say kneeling down so I insert myself into his line of sight. "Remember that both of us choose this. We went out and looked for a kid who had a history of drug use. But we also wanted to protect you. You are the only person who should ever be able to choose who gets to know that about you, and who doesn't. That's all I meant by that comment."

"Do my grandparents know?" he asks. It warms my heart to hear that sweeping term which I know without asking includes the seven people in his life which have stepped up to fill that role for him.

"Mrs. Hudson does honey. But none of the others do," I tell him.

"I think my mom has guessed, and if she has she's certainly told my father. She knows what tract marks look like, and I think she might be looking at your arms now and again to see if she sees new ones," Sherlock corrects.

"If I tell the rest of them will I lose anyone?" he asks seriously.

I give it careful thought before I answer, "No, you won't."

"And if you were going to lose someone by being honest they are not the sort of person that you want in your life anyway," Sherlock says. I look at him, standing strong before the words that few in the world could really back up with action, and think about all the things he could be rejected for.

He's a socially awkward man who is sometimes abrasive to the point of cruelty to others. He is so smart that it is hard to not picture him getting teased for it when he was younger. He is gay, and demisexual. Add on the fact that he has very specific interests in things that few others share (tobacco ash and mud particulates to name a few).

I touch his hand, and he grins at me continuing his speech to our son. "There are a lot of people on this planet who don't deserve your time, Theo. Having a few odd things about you is a great way to weed out the ones who are not worth your time from the ones who are. You are definitely one of the ones worth knowing."

I stand up to kiss Sherlock. He kisses me back while ruffling Theo's hair, and when Rosie makes a little whimper that shows she feels left out he lifts her up to join the rest of us in a family hug.


End file.
